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COPYRIGHT DEPOSE 



WELL, WHY NOT? 

BY 
THOMAS L. MASSON 




GARDEN CITY, N. Y., AND TORONTO 

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 
1921 



^ 



^v 



M 






COPYRIGHT, 192 1, BY 

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION 

INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN 

COPYRIGHT, 1919, I920, BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY CHARLES A. HUGHES, PRINTERS' INK PUBLISHING COMPANY, AND 

THE OUTLOOK COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY LIFE PUBLISHING COMPANY 



MAY 25 1921 
g)C!.A614514 



ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

The author is indebted to his good 
friends, The Bookman, The Outlook, 
New Success, Life, Printer s Ink, and 
D. A. C. Detroit, for permission to re- 
print some of the pieces in this book. 



PROLOGUE TO FOREWORD 

No book that essays to call itself a book is com- 
plete nowadays without either a Foreword or a Pref- 
ace. Not being able to secure a writer of sufficient 
merit to write either, the task necessarily falls to the 
author. The Foreword that follows is, therefore, a 
masterpiece of general intelligence and super- 
abundant wit. It is one of the best Forewords yet 
presented to the Public. 

FOREWORD TO INTRODUCTION 
TO PREFACE 

Heretofore all Forewords have stood alone. Their 
difficulty, of course, is in the fact that nothing lies 
between them and the contents. No sooner has the 
reader skipped the Foreword than he is obliged to 
read the book. In this, our book, however, the 
reader is led so gradually into the contents that he 
hardly minds when he is there. But in addition to 
giving you so much for your money by providing a 
Prologue, an Introduction, and a Preface — -something 
apparently that no author has hitherto thought of in 
the Introduction to the Preface that follows, the 



author has availed himself of the privilege of origi- 
nality by providing an entirely new style of Introduc- 
tion. In most Introductions, the author includes 
all the ideas he has in the book, writing them over 
again, probably upon the assumption that, as nobody 
ever reads an " Introduction, " he is quite safe in giv- 
ing away beforehand all the book contains. The 
Introduction that follows is above all this. It 
is guaranteed not to disclose the slightest inkling 
of what is in the book. 

INTRODUCTION TO THE PREFACE 

It ought to be quite plain now, even to any hand- 
some person of average unintelligence, that the 
author of this book knows his business better than 
any other author now in typographical captivity. 
Every common author writes a preface (or gets some- 
one else to do it for him), a Foreword, or an Introduc- 
tion. But the present author, several years ahead 
of his age, has provided them all — and more — for 
he has not only begun with a Prologue, but he is 
quite likely to wind up with "A Few Remarks." 
This being incontestably true, the next thing in order 
is the 

PREFACE 

The idea of a Preface is to exhaust the reader be- 
fore the book itself is reached, provided it is read, 



which it rarely is. To do this the author must not 
only give a history of his life, but must tell how he 
came to write the book and his motives in inflicting 
it upon an always expectant (and generally disap- 
pointed) public. Then he must express his thanks 
to all those who, having read the book, have secretly 
advised him not to issue it while loudly proclaiming 
its epoch-making qualities. The present author, 
however, is seeking the gratitude of the public, so 
he refuses to do all these things, except to say that 
thanks are due to an expensive electric fan that pro- 
vided him with reasonable fresh air while writing it; 
to four typewriter ribbons that furnished the ink 
and inspiration, to certain vulgar creditors who, with- 
out knowing it, spurred him on, and to an innocent 
publisher who knew no better than to think he could 
get his money back. But 

P. S. 

A great fear has come over the present author 
that unless some outside person of distinguished 
ability can be induced to write something favor- 
able about the book, the public will feel cheated out of 
its just dues and will therefore refuse to read it. As 
already hinted, no literary celebrity could ever be 
induced to read the book, let alone write anything 
complimentary about it. Not that it is necessary 



to read a book in order to write about it. But while 
several celebrities have been approached, the answer 
was always the same. The author was not the kind 
of an author who would write anything that any con- 
scientious celebrity could introduce. He was over 
twelve years of age. That barred out Mr. Barrie. 
He had never done anything else — such as robbing 
other people of a couple of hundred millions, throw- 
ing a baby down a well, starting a new religion, in- 
venting a new diet, or running for President — which 
would entitle him to the privilege of writing upon any 
subject of which he knew nothing. This being so, 
he was in despair until — out of a clear kitchen sky — 
a martyr appeared who offered her services. The 
few Remarks that follow, therefore — properly in- 
troducing the readers who may now be left — were 
written (as the author firmly believes) by the only 
Perfect Lady Cook. 

A FEW REMARKS 

The author of this book is personally known to 
the writer of these lines as one who eats regularly 
three meals a day, and as many more as he can get, 
and who frequently robs the refrigerator at mid- 
night, drinking up all the milk left in the remaining 
bottle, and almost invariably leaving both doors open. 
There have been moments when he appeared to have 



a good disposition, but this was immediately after 
meals, and did not last. Also, he gets up in the mid- 
dle of the night in search of what he terms ideas, the 
only result, however, being to disarrange the furniture 
and not infrequently to do it damage. He was never 
known to put any article back in its place and has 
never learned how to take care of himself. When it 
rains, his raincoat and umbrella are always some- 
where else; and in summer his bathing suit, and in 
winter his overshoes, are never where he is ready 
to take oath he put them the season before. On the 
approach of any burglar he cowers in bed, with the 
sheets over his head. He cannot be trusted to mind 
a baby for fifteen minutes without endangering its 
life. His eyesight and memory are fast failing him 
and he cannot remember the face or name of any 
woman, even if she has spent a week-end in his home, 
for more than a few hours. He once tried to make 
out an income tax report and was only saved from 
a term of imprisonment and a heavy fine by two 
lawyers and the president of his local bank. His 
judgment in all business matters is wretched, and if 
given more than ten dollars at a time he squanders 
them in hard gum drops (which always disagree with 
him), in second-hand golf balls, and in moving pic- 
ture shows. He has never learned how to put the 
studs in a dress shirt. His knowledge of politics, 
history, literature, art, and music is all quite vague 



and uncertain, his inaccuracy being so proverbial 
that when he makes a prediction on any subject, 
the exact opposite is certain to occur. He is full 
of conceit and frequently so absent-minded and rude 
in his manner that apologies have to be privately 
offered for him. He cannot drive a nail, lock a door 
properly, allows women to put on new tires, and 
does not even know how to replace an electric bulb. 
In fact, his ignorance is only exceeded by his vanity. 
His book, therefore, ought to be a great success. 
Well, Why Not? 

The Only Perfect Cook. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 



Some Reflections on the Personal Pronoun in 

Literature 3 

On Skipping 8 

The Care and Treatment of Golfers ... 20 

A First Night — With a Dog 26 

Strangers in a Strange Land 29 

Reticence 31 

Hearts 34 

A New Field of Literature 43 

My Subway Guard Friend 49 

Best Sellers I Have Never Read .... 52 

Women We Are Always Marrying .... 57 

What Is Advertising? 63 

Found 71 

Among the Poverty-stricken Millionaires . . 74 

The Spring Efficient 81 

Putting Our Literature on a Literary Basis. . 84 

What Are the Requirements of a Novel ? . 92 



Xlll 



xiv CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Jealousy ioo 

How to Know the Wild Psychologists . . .102 

A Delicate Subject 108 

Wanted: A Secretary of Athletics .... 114 

On the Recommending of Books . . . . 119 

On the Principles and Practice of Humour . 124 

Egotism 130 

An Actor on Their Hands 133 

Book Reviewers 141 

Pals 147 

A Letter of Protest 151 

The Great Bingtop Mystery 154 

Golf and Literature 159 

An Afternoon at the Current Events Club . 162 

The Man Who Came Back 169 

Incognito 175 

Manners 178 

His Wonderful Opportunity . . . . . .180 

A Stand-off. . . 182 

When the Cities Go to the Country . . . 184 

An Interrupted Argument 192 

The Impossibles 194 



CONTENTS xv 

PAGE 

Well, Why Is Wall Street? 198 

When You Propose 204 

The Brown Bear Explains 206 

Boys 210 

A Complete System 233 

The Visitor 236 

For the Girl You Love 237 

On Spending One's Money 239 

Indissoluble Partners 242 

The Great I Am 244 

A Narrow Escape 246 

Popular Conceptions 249 

The Right Man 251 

Notes on Health 254 

Hands Down 259 

Looking Backward on the Home .... 262 

So Runs the World Away ...... 266 

To Err Is Woman . 268 

Some Historic Blurbs . 270 

Confessions of a Happily Married Man . 273 



WELL, WHY NOT? 



WELL, WHY NOT? 

SOME REFLECTIONS ON THE PERSONAL 
PRONOUN IN LITERATURE 

THE receipt for being a professional humourist — 
according to some gentlemen — is solely to write 
about oneself. It is a simple plan. The most comic 
person in the world is oneself. Furthermore, one- 
self is always on hand. Your habits, your peculiar- 
ities — which you discreetly cultivate for commercial 
purposes — are immediately accessible, as a kind of 
stock-in-trade which may be drawn upon at will. 
Moreover, it is the easiest way and in these days 
of ardent competition, the easiest way is the one 
that yields the largest immediate profits. Thus 
we have a whole school of writers who acquire 
families apparently only for the purpose of exploiting 
them. The baby must pay for himself. The grow- 
ing boy, in the absence of his being himself a literary 
prodigy — for even in the family of a genius it is not 
to be expected that all of the offspring will inherit 
from their father — must do his vicarious bit. In 



4 THE PERSONAL PRONOUN 

these days, if you would be a writer of distinction, 
you have but to expose yourself to your eager public 
without shame and without remorse. What you 
had for breakfast, how you stumbled downstairs on 
your way to your sanctum, what you wear — all 
this and more is grist for your mill. 

The public is vaguely tolerant, because the public 
battens on personalities, and in the main, what does 
it matter whether a man writes about himself or 
someone else? And the American public, which, 
because of its heterogeneous quality, lacks a standard 
of taste in its literature, has been trained to accept 
this sort of thing. When Bill Nye broke his leg, 
he welcomed it as a godsend; it gave him, as he 
frankly avowed, something new to write about. 
The manager of an American lecture bureau was 
frankly puzzled for some years to know how to get 
the most out of the British celebrities he brought 
over here. He discovered the secret in a flash of 
racial inspiration. 

"Gentlemen," his instructions read, "withhold 
your opinions; nobody here cares what these opin- 
ions are: they want to know about you; talk, there- 
fore, about yourselves." The British celebrities 
obeyed, for even a British celebrity, strange as this 
may seem, is not above making money. 

Then again, there are undoubtedly distinguished 
precedents. Wordsworth wrote about himself — 



THE PERSONAL PRONOUN 5 

ingenuously and shamelessly. So did Rousseau. 
Caesar's Commentaries were political documents 
in which he figured largely as the hero. Shake- 
speare's sonnets were all about himself. In reality, 
it is quite true that nobody writes except about him- 
self. His characters may go under other names, 
but the villain is himself and the hero is himself. 
Macawber was Dickens and Dickens was Macawber. 
Bernard Shaw masquerades back of his characters 
with his tongue in his cheek, and you can always 
hear him moving the scenery about. Samuel Pepys, 
telling about his wife and his servants and his eczema, 
is one of the most delightful writers in literature. 
What, then, constitutes the difference ? If Rousseau 
and Pepys exposed their frailties to a devoted poster- 
ity, why should Mr. Irvin Cobb be reluctant to ex- 
plain how homely he is, or Mr. George Ade or Mr. 
Ellis Parker Butler explain how it feels to be fifty? 

There is scarcely any greater curiosity than that 
which is displayed about any man who has distin- 
guished himself supremely in any direction. Ex- 
President Wilson is an example. The efforts of a 
whole school of literary sleuths have been expended 
in an endeavour to analyze his motives, dissect his 
emotions — if he has any — and tabulate his habits. 
Suppose that he himself had taken the lead, and 
as a kind of preface to his public documents had 
explained how he felt when he wrote them, what he 



6 THE PERSONAL PRONOUN 

ate, what he wore. His career would have been 
much shorter than it has been. Such care has to be 
exercised in these matters that even Mr. Taft, now 
far removed from the presidency, almost invariably 
refers to himself, when writing for the public, as 
"the present writer." The difference seems to de- 
pend upon three things — upon what a man is writing 
about, upon the standard of public taste, and upon 
the writer himself. If Pepys' diary had been pub- 
lished during his lifetime, it would have excited 
derision and contempt. It is supremely interesting, 
not wholly for what Pepys says and does himself, 
but because what he said and did was part and parcel 
of the age in which he lived. After reading him we 
can reconstruct London as it then was, and once 
more walk its unwholesome streets with the vividness 
of actual presence. 

There is, however, a deeper reason than the ones 
mentioned. When a man writes about himself, 
he must in reality be impersonal: That is, the things 
he writes about must be larger and more universal 
than he himself. However much we may deplore, 
during some moments of Wordsworth, not only his 
lack of humour, but the painful simplicity and 
naivete of his most childish utterances, we realize 
that these cadences are common to all of us, and 
that they are much bigger than he is. It is quite 
largely a question of detachment, of the importance 



THE PERSONAL PRONOUN 7 

of which few American writers understand. The 
great writers always succeed in detaching themselves 
from the thing they are writing about, even when it 
is themselves. They are always impersonal, even 
when they seem not to be so. Well, why not ? 



ON SKIPPING 

THE business of skipping everything we read has 
become so universal and unconscious that few 
of us have stopped to consider its possibilities, or 
the great benefits to be derived by reducing it to a 
scientific basis. It is a process largely acquired by 
our habit of reading the newspapers. The men who 
write the headlines make it so easy for us that it is 
possible merely by turning over the pages and 
glancing at these headlines to get what we believe 
is a fair idea of what is going on without reading 
anything in the pages. We assume, with bland 
confidence, that the men who make the headlines 
must themselves read the articles, and that if there 
is anything in them worth knowing, the headlines 
will convey it to us. 

It is quite remarkable that this system has not yet 
been applied to books, but that is because, doubtless, 
we have been so busy with other matters that we 
haven't gotten around to it. The trouble with the 
average index is that it has no developed plot. And 
the men who get up tables of contents appear to 
be bent upon concealing from us what we really 
want to know. To do the thing properly, of course, 



ON SKIPPING 9 

as it really ought to be done, they might have to 
read the books themselves. That is a great deal to 
ask of a man who gets up the contents and index. 
He is a busy man. He has his responsibilities. He 
ought not to be pushed too hard. Besides, if he 
did read the books and were able to make his con- 
tents and index as good as they ought to be, this 
would show in him powers and abilities that he could 
use to better advantage in other directions. He 
could probably make more at writing headlines. 

It might be practical to get the gentlemen who 
write the headlines and "doormats" to work evenings 
on books, and to give them the space which the oblig- 
ing author employs for "forewords," introductions, 
and prefaces. This would be a great saving. We 
should only have to read the first few pages of a book, 
embodied thus in appropriate headlines, to discourse 
about it even more intelligently than we do at present. 

It would not do to trust the author with this job. 
In the first place, he knows too much about the book. 
It is a fair assumption that he has read it almost too 
closely. This is a great handicap, for he would be 
sure to be biased in his view and put in something 
not essential. We want a trained skipper — one 
who touches the book only on the high spots. 

It should be understood that we are not looking 
exactly for a summary, because a summary is gen- 
erally dull and lacks dramatic excellence. We want 



io ON SKIPPING 

something which, in a few words, conveys the au- 
thor's idea better than he himself has done it. 
" Hamlet" is considered by those who have taken 
the time and trouble to read it through, to be one 
of the best of Shakespeare's plays. It would be un- 
fair to the more or less extinguished author to start 
off with : 

Hamlet, a young prince of the house of Denmark, becomes very 
angry because his father-in-law has poured into his late father's 
ear something that caused his quietus. Hamlet resolves to get 
even, but puts off the fatal moment so long that he himself also 
dies. He is in love, by the way, with a handsome young woman 
named Ophelia. 

This is all very well but — so to speak — it lacks pep. 
It doesn't get home to the reader. Something has 
got to be done to make the problem speak to all of us. 
We must be made to feel that it is a problem that 
really concerns us. It is only by making it a personal 
affair that we can get stirred up to any degree of 
literary curiosity or excitement; something like this: 

WOULD YOU KILL YOUR FATHER-IN-LAW? 

And At the Same Time Go Back On The Girl You Love? 

Hamlet was confronted with this situation. He did not feel 
justified in waiting for the court to decide. Besides, his mother 
had married the man who killed his father too soon to make it 
entirely respectable, and Ophelia, his best girl, became mad by 
reciting too much modern poetry. Hamlet, therefore, kills 
everybody, including himself. It was a splendid thing for him 
to do, because it proves that living with your father-in-law under 



ON SKIPPING ii 

these circumstances may be easily more unendurable than death 
itself and fully as bad as living with your mother-in-law. He also 
stabbed Polonius, a fearful bore, thus establishing a useful pre- 
cedent. 

The object of skipping any book in these days is 
to be able to discuss it with anybody else and to con- 
vey the unmistakable impression that you have read 
it to the bone. Subjected to this test, it will easily 
be seen that you already know enough about Hamlet 
for the purpose. In fact, it gives you a much greater 
advantage than if you had neglected your business 
and golf and baseball and the "movies" to study it 
more carefully. For you can now be offhand and 
delightfully humorous. 

In these favourable circumstances, you meet a 
clever lady whom, because you do not care to marry 
her, you wish to impress with your lofty intelligence. 
And she says: 

"Don't you think 'Hamlet' is a wonderful psy- 
chological study?" 

"Tremendous," you say, flecking the ashes from 
your cigarette. " But it is a great pity that Ophelia 
got going on free verse. Otherwise she might have 
died sane." 

"Oh, you dreadful iconoclast," she exclaims, tap- 
ping you reproachfully with her fan. "Always 
making fun of the most sacred things. Will you 
never be serious?" 



12 ON SKIPPING 

"I assure you I am serious," you say gravely. 
"And who would live with one's father-in-law when 
he hasn't money enough to support you in the manner 
to which you have been accustomed?" You remark 
this at a venture. It isn't in the headline, but you 
know you are safe. You can say almost anything 
when, with a slight basis of fact, you say it in that 
way. And your reputation for being a Shakespear- 
ian scholar and an acute literary critic is thereby 
established beyond peradventure — as Shakespeare 
might himself say. 

A bond of sympathy is immediately established 
between you. She is flattered by the fact that you 
have considered her worthy of your confidence to the 
extent of being able to understand the depth of 
your real meaning, clothed as it were in your in- 
imitable wit. And when she meets you again she 
says: 

"You are such a deep student of Shakespeare, 
won't you really tell me sometime — in one of your 
sober moments — what you consider his real message 
to the world?" To which you retort suavely: 

"Ah, my friend, life is indeed a solemn tangle — 
let us not be too serious, or we shall go mad — like 
poor Ophelia." 

It may be argued that the author of a modern 
book, in his introduction, or the publisher in his de- 



ON SKIPPING 13 

scription, gives enough of an idea of it, so that the 
reading is entirely unnecessary. The author, for 
example, may begin with the startling and revolu- 
tionary words : 

"In this book I have sought to convey " 

The only difficulty with this theory is that the 
author so rarely conveys what he thinks he is seeking 
to — and the publisher, knowing the genuine value 
of the book if he can only get it read, is rarely dis- 
honourable enough, or unbusinesslike enough, to 
give away the whole plot in advance. Besides, it is 
not essential to know the real plot of a book in order 
to converse about it as if you had read it. If you 
want to know the plot of Hall Caine's books you have 
but to read the Bible, where he got them; and as many 
of us have read the Bible when very young, it is there- 
fore not necessary to read Hall Caine's books at all. 
That is, unless you are reading for style; in which 
case you will of course read Hall Caine. 

It is often best, however, not to know the plot. 
Mr. Galsworthy's "Saint's Progress" might be dealt 
with thus : 

If you love a girl and her back-number father objects, is it 
right to keep a war waiting just to get married? May you not 
do something else? 

N.B. 

Girl's name: Noel Pierson. 
Lover's name: Cyril Morland. 



i4 ON SKIPPING 

Armed with this fundamental information, you 
are approached once more by your literary lady. 
And she says: 

"Don't you think 'Saint's Progress' is a wonderful 
study?" 

"Ah, but," you soliloquize, flecking the ashes from 
your cigarette, "if you really want to get married 
properly, why not — I say why not? — keep a war wait- 
ing at least a couple of days?" 

"You are quite impossible," she exclaims. "Will 
you never abandon your flippant manner? Don't 
you realize ?" 

You do realize. Being now an accomplished skip- 
per of books, you know that you mustn't go too far. 
And so you say, again gravely: 

"Ah, yes. You are right. But what, after all, 
is marriage? The old boundaries are being broken 
down. Galsworthy is only slightly in advance of 
his age. He has true vision. What will the future 
be? How can any one forecast that? All I know is 
that there is something deeper than this false civiliza- 
tion — something hidden in our souls that " 

She clasps your hand. 

"It is indeed so," she whispers, looking wistfully 
out of the ninth-story window toward Pittsburgh. 
"How well you voice it! How deep your insight! 
And Galsworthy! Is he not — wonderful?" 

It is not improbable that there are many conscien- 



ON SKIPPING 15 

tious people who will dismiss this whole argument 
as being too flippant in itself, and unworthy of any 
genuine lover of literature. But it must be remem- 
bered that, as the late Grover Cleveland remarked, 
we are confronted by a condition and not a theory. 
It is obvious that we can read only a small portion of 
what is being written, no matter how good it is. 
We must abandon the whole business, thus sacrificing 
the society and esteem of all literary people, or we 
must acquire the art of skipping. And the question 
then becomes, Shall we learn this art ourselves as it 
ought to be learned or shall we wait for the labour- 
saving headlines to come along? Time presses. 
Ten books will come out next week which not to know 
about is to argue one's self unknown. 

Take Job. We had thought that this unfortu- 
nate gentleman's status was fairly well established, 
that his standing as a character in fiction was fixed 
so that we should not have to bother about him any 
more. He has served us well as a kind of example 
in patience and discipline. He made a poor selection 
of friends and undoubtedly talked too much to the 
neighbours about his symptoms and personal trou- 
bles. And yet, until the income tax and Bolshevism 
came along and the price of clothes got so high that 
it was no object for a modest and God-fearing man 
to wear them any more, we were inclined to sym- 
pathize with Job. But now is H. G. Wells, who writes 



16 ON SKIPPING 

about Job; and in order to keep up with the literary 
times we must know what Mr. Wells thinks, or we 
shall be termed that ignominious thing, a lowbrow. 
This is also true of J. D. Beresford. We had sup- 
posed that the general object that people had in 
mind in getting married, in view of the high rents, 
was to save as much floor space as possible; yet in 
"God's Counterpoint " Mr. Beresford has his couple, 
on their honeymoon, hire no end of separate apart- 
ments, apparently regardless of expense, and all be- 
cause the alleged hero's father refused to read risque 
books in his early youth. It is not my intention 
to discuss matters of sex. I am no Robert Chambers 
in disguise, and I understand from members of my 
immediate family that the ground has already been 
covered by many painstaking and conscientious 
people who believe that writing literature is above 
any money consideration. But you cannot possibly 
discuss the subject of Platonic matrimonial friend- 
ship — assuming there is such a thing — with any 
Vassar graduate unless you have read, or know some- 
thing about, Mr. Beresford's book. 

We must, therefore, learn how to skip if we wish 
to achieve the reputation for being even semi-intelli- 
gent. And being semi-intelligent is almost a neces- 
sity — unless you live in New York. 

The worst of it is that what you may need to know 
about a book may not be at its end, but concealed 



ON SKIPPING 17 

somewhere inside of it, in a pocket, as it were. This 
means sharp looking, a sort of instinct acquired only 
by practice. 

Macaulay used to do it by running his eye over 
the opening of each paragraph. He could usually 
track the essential thing to its lair in a short time. 
His wonderful memory was a great help. I am aware 
that memories are going out. But you can get one 
for five dollars at any correspondence school. 

In addition to novels, however, there are other 
kinds of books which it seems necessary to skip 
in order to appear as if you knew something. No 
one ought, certainly in these times, to appear not to 
know something about the League of Nations. A 
year or so ago a brief skipping of the Constitution 
of the United States might have answered for this 
purpose. But in the best literary — and I believe 
also in the best political — circles, the Constitution 
is no longer en regie. It is therefore essential that 
we should do some skipping of the writings of modern 
historians. You will discover that your ignorance 
of the present League — an ignorance that you share 
with most good Americans — depends upon how 
little you know of former leagues. But after you 
have judiciously skipped Stephen Pierce Duggan's 
book ("The League of Nations. The Principle 
and Practice"), you will be entirely safe in meeting 
your literary lady. She will begin by saying: 



1 8 ON SKIPPING 

" Don't you think the League of Nations is a won- 
derful psychological study?" 

"Poor old Metternich, ,, you will reply, somewhat 
absently flecking the ashes from your cigarette, "he 
little knew " 

She will press you for a more definite reply. 

"Knew what?" she will ask, with the devotional 
aspect of one who seeks wisdom at its very fountain- 
head. And you will then realize your responsibility. 
This is no time for cheap cynicism or brilliant per- 
siflage. You must get down to business. 

"He little knew," you will go on, "the basic prin- 
ciples of self-determination. Much as we revere 
the Greeks, we have come to realize that, with the 
possible exception of Plato, they were, alas ! but hope- 
less seekers after the light. And Rome! What is 
Rome now? The Holy Roman Empire has been 
dissolved. Do you realize that ? Nothing but Shan- 
tung remains." 

You will say this after a considerable pause, with 
deep feeling. 

"It is as you say," she will remark. "Ah, my 
friend, if I did not feel that there were still minds 
like yours to grapple with these international prob- 
lems, I should despair of my country." 

You will then lay your hand upon her arm; not 
in the Robert Chambers or John Galsworthy or J. D. 
Beresford, or even the H. G. Wells or Hall Caine 



ON SKIPPING 19 

manner, but more as William Howard Taft or Robert 
Lansing would do it. 

"We must work together, we men and women of 
the higher mood, for the ultimate betterment of 
humanity, must we not?" you will whisper, dis- 
creetly. 

And, as Hamlet remarks — at least so I am told 
by an invaluable friend of mine named Bartlett — 
"so runs the world away." 



THE CARE AND TREATMENT OF GOLFERS 

IT IS getting more and more impossible not to as- 
sociate with people who play golf. At any time 
almost any one of us may marry a golfer without 
realizing the consequences. To be subjected to the 
constant conversational attacks of a golfer who is 
under the same roof with us — when he or she is not 
playing — is a fate that we must all look forward to. 
We must face it with what fortitude we can command 
and endeavour to neutralize it as much as possible. 

The number of golf links is not only increasing 
rapidly, but the increasing expense naturally at- 
tracts all good Americans, as the more money 
they can spend on a sport the better they like it. 
No genius has yet risen who can turn out cheap 
"flivver" golf links at the rate of one a week. To 
play golf costs money that is not so good as it was, 
but is good enough if you have enough of it. 

To belong to a golf club you not only need a set 
of clubs, a handful of loseable golf balls, and a motor 
car, but a certificate of stock in the club, a golfing 
trousseau, a set of red leather bridge markers, and a 
bottle of smuggled Scotch. This seems extravagant, 
but if you don't know how it may cost you a great 



TREATMENT OF GOLFERS 21 

deal more in time spent explaining why you have 
never learned. The first man you meet will say: 

"Well, how's your game?" 

"What game?" you will ask innocently. 

He will look at you as if you were the kind of man 
who boasts that he once voted for Bryan and say: 

"Why, golf, of course." 

"I don't play golf," you reply, with your teeth 
firmly set. 

If any other game but golf were at stake he would 
leave you then and there, with a shrug and a smile 
of withering contempt; but golf has a much more 
deadly effect upon its devotees. It makes them 
extensively kind, interminably sympathetic, and 
offensively bland. 

"You'll come to it," he will say, with patronizing 
and gentle tolerance. "It's the only game, in my 
opinion. Gets your mind off yourself. You need 
it — badly. Any one can see that. You got to take 
a few lessons first. It's form that counts. Some of 
'em'll tell you it doesn't make any difference. Don't 
you believe 'em. That was my mistake. Took 
me two years to get rid of my faults. I was pulling 
and slicing all over the course. You got to keep 
your eye on the ball — that's one thing. 

"Then there's your swing: you can't get a good 
swing unless you go at it right from the start. The 
best thing for you to do is to begin with one club. 



22 TREATMENT OF GOLFERS 

Go out alone and practice. Don't get discouraged. 
Wonderful exercise, even if you don't get anywhere — 
and you can generally get some fellow that will play 
with you." 

You meet him again, later on — before you have had 
the chance to avoid him — and weakly begin by apolo- 
gizing in advance for not yet having followed his 
advice. There is, in fact, no other subject now to 
talk about. All other subjects have been barred out. 

"Yes, I know," he replies, shaking his head dubi- 
ously, as if to imply on his part a conviction that 
no man of your moral limitations could be expected 
to meet the simplest obligation. "You keep putting 
it off — grow old before you know it — but of course 
it's strictly up to you." And next time you are 
more careful about this friend — who was once your 
friend. You look for him before you meet him — so 
you can cross over. If you do not forthwith be- 
come a golfer, you are likely to become a skulker. 

Of course you will become a golfer — in time. You 
will do it, not only in self-defense, but in the true 
spirit of service. You will learn their ways, if only 
to bring something else other than golf sunshine 
into their sterile, occasionally profane, and generally 
bunker-ridden lives. You will mingle with them on 
their own home links, and if out of ninety-and-nine 
you can get one of them to talk of something else 
but golf, you will not have lived in vain. 



TREATMENT OF GOLFERS 23 

But it isn't always the holing out that counts with 
a golfer; it is in the approach. And, strange as this 
may seem, not all golfers are alike. They all look 
alike when you view them from a short distance. 
They make the same gestures. They utter the same 
unintelligible sounds. It is only when you come to 
study them carefully that you will note their distin- 
guishing traits. 

Between the male and the female specimens there 
is, for example, a marked difference. The male 
golfer, when caught in a bunker, will bend over his 
labour lilqe an anthracite miner who has a family 
to support, until at the fifth stroke his guttural 
sounds indicate an approaching crisis. In this con- 
dition he is quite dangerous and unless the ball rises 
very soon is prone to break his club over his knee. 

The female golfer, on the other hand, at this stage 
emits only short, hysterical cries of anguish, and 
straightway resumes her placidity, with superb pres- 
ence of mind putting down on her score card about 
half the number of strokes she has actually made. 

It is well for us missionaries, who play golf only 
that we may regenerate those who are quite aban- 
doned, to know about these things. Male golfers 
in their habits are largely gregarious, and after con- 
cluding their regular game, sprinkle themselves with 
hot and cold water and group themselves together 
in a room where they take up once more, with re- 



24 TREATMENT OF GOLFERS 

newed fury, another occupation entitled "post mor- 
tem golf," pursuing it far into the night. The fe- 
male golfers, on the other hand, indulge only spar- 
ingly in post mortems immediately after play, re- 
serving their energies until later, for members of 
their immediate family circles, or innocent people 
who may have been led into being their guests. 

The male golfer is sometimes obliged, by force 
of circumstances over which he appears to have no 
control, to play with a female golfer, but when this 
happens he usually selects a young and handsome 
female, not a member of his own household. There 
are exceptions to this rule, but they never occur when 
he is playing on any distant links. 

With these few general remarks on the flora and 
fauna of golfers, the nature of the problem before 
us should be readily grasped by any fairly intelligent 
person. The great question is, What are we to do? 

We must organize. Our work must be construc- 
tive and not destructive. We must gradually seek 
to build up, in the lives of those golfers we approach, 
something else besides golf. We must get the men 
golfers into the habit of talking occasionally about 
business, or political economy, or psycho-analysis, 
or free verse, or Congress, or almost anything equally 
unintelligible. 

For those imbued with the crusading spirit of 
ultimate golf righteousness and who have not learned 



TREATMENT OF GOLFERS 25 

the game, we must establish golf correspondence 
schools, so they can make it at least appear that they 
are familiar enough with ordinary golf jargon to pass 
muster in a crowd. And, of course, we must first 
learn to control ourselves and, as an example in self- 
abasement, be able sternly to put away from us at 
any moment our own golf. 

He who conquereth his own golf is greater than 
he who reduceth his average score by eight strokes 
in one season. Assuming that you know the differ- 
ence between a mashie and a niblick, or why a spoon 
brassie is better than a wooden cleek in the long 
grass on the tenth hole, you must sternly refrain from 
explaining, either to the newcomer or the old stager, 
that the jigger you have just had made to order ac- 
cording to a formula of your own is, in this particular 
emergency, the only club to use. 

Neither must you explain that up to and including 
the seventeenth you had a clean score of eighty-five 
and if it hadn't been for your driving into the ditch 
on the last hole and taking five to get out you would 
have won the match. 

And when some chance comrade sidles up and 
remarks, "Do you play golf?" you must have the 
courage to reply, "Yes, I play it but I don't talk it." 

Well, Why Not? 

This way only does our golf salvation lie. 



A FIRST NIGHT— WITH A DOG 

THE other day I brought home a dog. The way 
I happened to get him was this. I was walking 
along, thinking of nothing in particular, when I came 
to a dog-store window. And I naturally stopped. 
Everyone stops at a dog window. If he doesn't, well, 
you know what he is. I stopped at that window, I 
saw that dog, and I went in and bought him. He 
was sitting there in the window with an expectant 
look in his eyes, generally wretched and miserable, 
as if he were in need of a friend. The lady in charge 
said he was six months old, in prime condition, and 
quite reliable and trustworthy. He had short hair, 
a crooked tail, and looked like a Boston bull. I got 
him for ten dollars because he had no pedigree. What 
he lacked in pedigree he made up in human interest 
and reckless affection. I got him home in a basket. 

My reception was all that could be desired, and 
more. Even the austere lady of the house, after 
the first dismay, fell a victim to his canine charms. 
As for the children, their joy knew no bounds. 
Neither did the dog. 

Night fell rapidly. The stars came out and twin- 
kled their pleasure, and the hour came when it was 
26 



A FIRST NIGHT— WITH A DOG 27 

time to go to bed. Everybody wanted that dog, 
but my superior logic prevailed. I would keep him 
for a few nights and train him. So we got a clothes 
basket and a blanket and I put the dog into it, told 
him to lie down, and composed myself to sweet slum- 
ber. 

The dog was overjoyed with the basket, but he 
was more overjoyed with me. Have you ever been 
flattered — at night — by a joyous dog? Have you 
seen his tail quiver with affection? 

"Lie down, Beppo," I said (we had decided to call 
him Beppo). "There's a good dog." Beppo was 
unwilling to lie down. He had no difficulty in get- 
ting out of his basket. The more I put him into it 
the more overjoyed he was to leap out of it. "This 
is a game," said Beppo, "that two — quite fortu- 
nately for me — can play at." 

Beppo won. He had me four down at the end of 
the ninth basket approach. 

Then I decided to put him at the foot of my bed. 
I covered him up with his blanket and swiftly sank 
my head on the pillow. Beppo made a splendid 
follow through and landed on my bald spot — with 
his tongue. It was the only thing in sight. As 
often as I rose in my exhausted might and put him 
where I wanted him to belong, as often did he romp 
back to that bald spot. 

"I'll fix you!" I chattered. With Beppo firmly 



28 A FIRST NIGHT— WITH A DOG 

grasped under one arm, I staggered into the upper 
hall. Yes, there it was — the banded pasteboard 
box that contained the lady's priceless hat which 
had come by express that day. Removing the im- 
ported contents — evidence of a fictitious, fabulous 
prosperity — I put Beppo inside, shut down the cover, 
punched a few air holes, and fastened the box firmly 
between two chairs. Then I crept back into bed. 
With enormous resolution, I ignored the distant 
muffled whines, and fell thereafter into a fitful slum- 
ber. 

The next morning I was awakened by an ominous 
sound. It was not Beppo. It was the voice of a 
lady — high-pitched and vibrant with hysterical mean- 
ing. There were tears in that voice. 

"Come here," said the lady, "and see what you 
have done." 

I came, I saw, and I shuddered. 

There sat Beppo, the conqueror. He had put his 
teeth in an air hole and ripped his way out. The re- 
mains of the priceless hat — for which I would pay 
later in coin of the realm — lay scattered to the four 
walls of our haven of unrest. 

" Did you say," remarked the lady some hours later, 
"that Beppo had cost you only ten dollars? How 
thrifty of you!" And she smiled as sweetly as, in 
the forlorn circumstances, it was possible. 



STRANGERS IN A STRANGE LAND 

HUMOUR and Satire once met at a country 
inn. Humour was rather quiet and portly, 
with a look of conspicuous comfort. Satire's fea- 
tures, on the other hand, were sharply defined. He 
was by no means, however, the unpleasant person 
that some imagine him. An air of ingenuousness 
and a certain sympathetic attachment to what was 
being said produced a feeling of keen interest in him 
and pleasure in his presence. 

They occupied a private room. 

"How long do you expect to remain here?" said 
Humour. 

"I really don't know. I'm a stranger to America. 
Rather interesting place. I could keep very busy 
here — if the people took to me. But I don't feel 
quite at home. They don't seem to understand my 
ways." 

Humour smiled. 

"They are peculiar," he said. "I myself have 
been living here for some time, but they don't even 
understand me thoroughly, although they think 
they do. They often pretend that I amuse them 
deeply, but the large proportion of them are hypo- 



30 STRANGERS IN A STRANGE LAND 

crites. They are really a melancholy lot and try 
to conceal it by making out that they are on constant 
and familiar terms with me." 

"That is not so singular as another thing I know — 
the fact that, although we are so closely related and 
really ought to have so much in common, we have 
never met before." 

At this moment the landlord of the inn, who bowed 
profoundly to Humour as a distinguished guest, but 
barely noticed Satire, approached with two cards. 

"There are two gentlemen outside who wish to 
meet you," he said. Humour glanced at the cards, 
as well as through the door at the two sombre figures 
outlined. Then he turned with a quiet smile to 
Satire. 

"I'll now show you something more singular than 
the thing you have just mentioned," he observed. 
"Those two fellows out there are apparently total 
strangers to each of us. Think of that. They wish 
to meet us for the first time." 

"Who are they?" 

"One is a professional satirist and the other a pro- 
fessional humourist." 



RETICENCE 

AMONG a host of latter-day sins is any one 
considered greater than reticence? 
To be reticent is to be modest, to keep one's self 
in the background, to dwell under the spell of an 
obsolete humility; and as if these counts were not 
enough to condemn it, most terrible of all accusations 
is the one which reveals the reticent person as being 
wholly oblivious to the supreme advantages of ad- 
vertising. The other frailties might be inherited, 
like a short upper lip, or any other deformity, but 
this last is plain stupidity. For surely there is no 
person in his senses to-day but who thoroughly 
understands the intellectual, not to mention the 
moral, necessity of all advertising in general, and 
of self-advertising in particular. Not, we hasten to 
exclaim, of blatant, or vulgar, or crude self-advertis- 
ing, which uses, for example, a brass band or gilt- 
edged, embossed letter paper with a portrait engraved 
in the upper left-hand corner, all for the purpose of 
getting one's self elected Mayor or president of the 
Needlework Guild. No, not that. All that is past. 
But it is the self-advertising which has come to be a 
fine art, if not the fine art of the day, to which we al- 
31 



32 RETICENCE 

lude; an art elucidated by psychologists, elaborated 
by efficiency experts, and extolled by bishops. 

The competition is keen. You must, for example, 
if you wish to "land," so to speak, "in the public 
eye," become so active in disinterested public service 
as to be worthy of notice in the local papers and 
to be commented upon editorially and occasionally 
,as a shining example of civic righteousness. There 
is a regular formula for this sort of thing. Consider 
the immense benefit at the start of establishing a 
reputation for civic courage. This can be done in so 
many ways. You can call somebody a liar, you can 
denounce the local political reform league, or you can 
come out against the Indigo Sabbath. Henceforth 
your envious rivals will say of you, as they shake 
their heads dubiously: "He has mighty few friends 
left. He's wrong on every question. But — what 
nerve!" Henceforth you have an assured place in 
the newspapers, right next to the impure reading 
matter. 

Reticence is the reverse of all this, the most de- 
spised of all sins, because it leads nowhere, and 
"nowhere" is not one of those American ideals of 
which orators tell us so much every day. Even 
babies no longer affect it. Once, when you drew 
near a strange baby, he hung his head, put his finger 
in his mouth, and bellowed for the fire department, 
the local police system, Pinkerton's Agency, and his 



RETICENCE 33 

mother. Now he leans back nonchalantly, smiles 
patronizingly, holds out a chubby paw and says, by 
Jove, he's glad of the honour. There is, indeed, 
no fazing a modern baby, brought up on twilight 
sleep, Claxton horns, trained nurses, phonographs, 
and comic sections. That which Tennyson spoke 
of as: "Such fine reserve and noble reticence" is no 
longer good form commercially. There is no room for 
it. It produces nothing but courtesy and honesty 
and meditation, the three disgraces. 

If there were need of it, we should see it reproduced 
in women's clothes. But who sees reticence in 
women's clothes ? 



HEARTS 

DID you ever play Bridge? Well, why not? 
They said it's a good game but I don't see so 
much to it. I was over at my cousin's the other night, 
having dropped in on them unexpectedly (so nice, 
you know, to have a place like that where you can 
feel free to drop in at any time), and they had a bridge 
party on. At the last moment someone telephoned 
regrets and my cousin turned to me and said: 

"George, you must help us out. You play, of 
course." 

Now I don't play, you know, but I like to be oblig- 
ing, and so I said: 

"I shall be delighted to help you out, only my 
game " 

"There, there," said my cousin, "I understand. 
Don't deprecate yourself. I wager you're a fiend 
at it." 

Of course I've played whist, and I knew bridge was 
the next worst thing, for I never could understand 
anyway the passion for cards which possesses some 
people. 

I drew a violently handsome young woman for my 
partner. I knew at a glance that she was a good 

34 



HEARTS 35 

player. She had a sort of chronic bridge look about 
her, which did not take from her beauty in the least. 
But I've knocked about the world a bit and am not 
apt to get rattled easily. 

"Strength or weakness ?" she asked in businesslike 
tones, looking coldly at me as she shuffled the cards. 
(It was her deal.) 

"Beg pardon?" I said. 

"Do you discard from strength or weakness ?" 

She repeated more fully this time. But she wasn't 
going to catch me as early in the game as that. I 
bowed politely. 

"I prefer not to say," I replied. "I would rather 
not give away my game." I felt that was an inspira- 
tion. 

Our opponents exchanged what was plainly an 
attempt at a courageous smile. But I knew already 
that I had them on the run. After all, it's confidence 
in oneself that wins. 

My partner glanced over her hand and said, "I 
pass over." 

My right-hand opponent was a large man with a 
thin red face, small eyes, and mustaches on either 
side of his face that fell away — or rather drooped 
but slightly — to a single fierce hair. I waited some 
time for him to speak. Finally, I said as politely 
as possible: 

"What do you do, sir?" 



36 HEARTS 

I fancied I heard him snort, but this after all might 
have been only my imagination. 

"This is not a game of euchre," he replied. "We 
are all waiting for you. What do you do, sir?" 

There are moments when one should make con- 
cessions to any enemy. Besides, I was there to learn 
quickly and not to appear as if I was ignorant. So I 
said warmly: 

"Of course! How stupid of me. I have been 
playing euchre a great deal lately and momentarily 
I forgot." 

I scanned my hand critically. 

"Urn. Ah!" I said. "Sorry, I pass also." 

This time there was no mistake about it. My 
right-hand opponent did snort. 

I saw then that I had made a mistake. I had been 
too apologetic. I was about to snort back (this being 
the only method of retaliation that immediately 
occurred to me) when my partner, in a wonderfully 
low, even voice looked at me fixedly as she said : 

"You must make it, you know. Just take your 
longest suit, that is, the one you have the most of, 
no matter whether they are high or not, and make it 
that." 

I listened intently, for if I do say it, I have always 
been remarkably quick to pick anything up, and 
when she had finished, I said: 

"Yes. That was precisely what I was going to 



HEARTS 37 

do when this gentleman" (I purposely lingered on 
that word) "interrupted me. I was about to say 
that I pass to hearts." 

Without at all appearing to do so, even while I 
spoke, I had rapidly calculated that I had seven 
hearts in my hand, which were more cards than any 
other suit contained. 

"May I play to a heart?" said Whiskers (for 
this is the name I immediately gave him). 

"You may," replied his partner, who appeared 
to me a nervous system inhabited by a spinster lady 
of uncertain age. If she had indeed possessed half 
as much intellect she might have been a leader of 
some new reform movement. As it was, she was the 
best bridge player in a community that so far as 
I could gather never did anything else but eat and 
sleep and complain of high taxes. 

Whiskers led the ace of spades, and, not having 
any spades, I was about to trump it triumphantly 
with one of my hearts when I caught my partner 
looking at me. Indeed, by this time, I was learning 
to look for her looks. It was worth more than a 
knowledge of the game itself just to be on such a 
confidential basis with a grand creature as that. 

"You lay down your hand," she said, quietly, "on 
the table." 

"To be sure, to be sure," said I, remembering that 
I had seen some such thing in watching others. With 



38 HEARTS 

this I put down the ace, king, queen, knave, and 
ten of hearts and two others, with the ace, queen, 
seven of clubs and king, queen, and ten of diamonds. 

"That was the only thing to do," said I, as my 
partner, following my suggestion, trumped the ace 
of spades. 

"No talking, sir, if you please" said Whiskers, 
glaring fiercely at me. "This is bridge, sir. I say, 
this is bridge." 

"Indeed," I replied, calmly. And I fancy I rather 
had the upper hand. "I was under the impression 
that it was a zangerfest." 

I knew instantly that Whiskers didn't know what 
a zangerfest was. For that matter, neither did I. 
But it told heavily upon him, for not to know about 
it made it appear worse. And somehow it seemed 
to add to the subtle irony of my remark to have it 
as remote and unintelligible as possible. He sighed 
deeply and looked at his partner hopelessly in a man- 
ner almost enough to make her bones crack. Indeed, 
I almost fancied I could hear them crack. In the 
meantime, my partner had taken another trick. 

"Score, one game for you," said Whiskers (who 
was keeping it), "with 64 in honours and 56 in 
tricks." 

"Not so bad," said I, cheerfully. I was bound to 
get a rise out of somebody if I could, but all were si- 
lent. Only I found my partner and myself exchang- 



HEARTS 39 

ing glances. She was growing more handsome every 
minute. 

Whiskers dealt. 

When he looked over his cards he said: 

"Without." 

"Excuse me," said I. "Without— what?" 

"Without trumps, you " 

He gave another snort. Perhaps he was trying 
to get back at me for that zangerfest by leaving 
what I was to the imagination. It takes more than 
a pair of whiskers, however, to rattle me. I realized 
also that I must keep my temper. Besides, I was 
getting busy with my partner's eyes (an occupation 
in itself) and I was gathering inspiration right along. 

I looked at my hand, and although it was another 
pack of cards, there were those same hearts, seven 
of 'em, almost the same as before. This time I had 
the ace, king, jack, ten, eight, and two others. 

"I'll raise you," I said, wondering why Whiskers 
could be such an ass as to make it without any trumps 
in his hand. 

"You mean," said my partner, gently, "that you 
double." 

"Yes, of course," I chuckled instantly. "You 
see I'ma fiend on poker. I mean, of course, that I 
double." ("Whatever that may be," I added to 
myself.) 

"I'm satisfied," said Whiskers. 



40 HEARTS 

I bowed ceremoniously. 

"I'm very glad to hear it," I said. "I was begin- 
ning to be afraid you were too hard to please." 

My partner didn't give him time to reply. 

"You may play," she said to me. 

If any one else had volunteered this gratuitious in- 
formation, I should have been inclined to resent it. 
But somehow, coming from her, it seemed eminently 
proper. 

"Thank you," I replied, without a trace of sarcasm. 

I led the ace of hearts and followed it with the king. 
Whiskers slapped his queen on it. 

"That was my only weak spot," he snorted at his 
partner who gave him an osseous smile intended to 
be encouraging. 

"No talking, if you please," said I, in a harsh, 
rasping voice. "This is bridge, sir. I say, this is 
bridge." 

Then I played out the rest of my hearts, and we 
got the odd trick. 

While I was dealing I couldn't help but rub it 
in. 

"If I had been in your place, sir," I said, in an easy, 
familiar tone, "being without any trumps, I would 
have passed it." 

Whiskers glared at me. 

"Don't you know, sir," he hissed, "that there 
were no trumps in that hand?" 



HEARTS 41 

"When you play without," my partner explained 
to me gently, "that means there are no trumps." 

"Bah!" snorted Whiskers, "you should learn the 
rudiments of the game, sir." 

"I'm fairly satisfied with the way I'm doing, sir," 
I replied with a fetching smile — for I knew now I 
fairly had him on the run — "and just to prove it" — 
I had seen my hand — same old hearts — "I'll make 
it without myself. Now you, sir, raise me or double 
if you please." 

"May I play?" asked Miss Bones at my left. 

"You may," answered Whiskers, not deigning 
to notice me. 

She led a small club, Whiskers put a king on it, 
while I, having only a queen and ace, put on my ace. 
Then I led out my hearts. 

In the midst of the operation, however, Whiskers 
suddenly roared. 

"You're leading out of the wrong hand, sir." 

"Which hand, sir?" said I. 

"Your partner's hand," he snorted. 

"Can you blame me?" I smiled. "With such a 
partner and such a hand could anybody be expected 
to lead from anything else?" 

Then I gave my partner another look. And some- 
how, I knew I had scored more than three tricks. 

At the end of an hour, during which I held mostly 
aces and queens, the bell rang and we stopped. 



42 HEARTS 

Whiskers and Bones made some calculations on 
paper, and then bringing out a pocket check book he 
made some vicious dabs at it with a fountain pen, 
while she murmured something about settling with 
him in the morning. Then he handed my partner 
and myself two checks, and getting up looked over 
the heads of everyone and in a faraway voice, low 
enough to make it appear that it wasn't intended for 
publication, and loud enough for everyone to hear, 
said, with a final snort: 

"That comes from playing with a d — d fool who 
never has played before. Never knew it to fail." 

As for my partner she whispered : 

"We've won two hundred apiece, and you're a 
dear. Is there any other game you know any 
better?" 

"Well, why not?" I replied. "Let's go into the 
conservatory — and you shall judge for yourself." 



A NEW FIELD OF LITERATURE 

THE biography of any married man, considered 
purely from the matrimonial standpoint, has 
never been written. No married man would dare 
write it during his lifetime, and if he turned it over 
to a friend there would be trouble enough for all 
concerned. Many prominent men have had biog- 
raphies written about them, and their wives have 
not been spared. But generally speaking, the book 
has not been published until after the death of the 
subject. When the thing has been done at all, how- 
ever, as in the case of Ruskin, Wagner, Carlyle, and 
Socrates, the affair has been one-sided. Few women, 
wives of great men, have written biographies of their 
husbands. It would be very interesting if Xanthippe, 
the wife of Socrates, could have written about some 
of the things he did, and from her standpoint. 

What a man is, is not only what he thinks he is, 
but what other people think he is, based upon the 
sum total of his actions as they record them. What 
any man's wife thinks he is, considering the fact 
that she has him under much closer inspection than 
anybody else, is certainly important. Yet this side 
of literature has been altogether neglected. 
43 



44 A NEW FIELD OF LITERATURE 

This is, however, a severely embarrassing matter. 
We can certainly do nothing about the people who 
are gone. It is too late. We don't know what the 
first lady who lived with Wagner thought of him. 
We can imagine what Josephine may have thought of 
Napoleon: and yet what she said about him at any 
period should not be taken too seriously. It is one 
thing for a woman to give vent to her feelings and 
quite another for her to sit down calmly in front of a 
typewriter and give her estimate of his character. 

Now there are undoubtedly heartless cynics who 
will dismiss this whole matter as unworthy of the 
attention of conscientious students, on the ground 
that women are not qualified to give a fair opinion 
of their husbands. But the question is not whether 
such an account would be fair or accurate, but 
whether it would be interesting. No biography of a 
great man can be accurate. Boswell did as well as 
he could and doubtless took greater pains than any 
other man to set his hero right with the public. But 
it is necessary to read between the lines of Boswell's 
book to get at Johnson at all, and every time it is 
re-read one gets a different idea. Henry Adams con- 
ceived the idea of writing about himself in the third 
person, and his "Education" was a remarkable lit- 
erary success. But what a delightful thing it would 
be if his grandmother could have written his grand- 
father up in her own way! 



A NEW FIELD OF LITERATURE 45 

It is quite appalling, and in a sense disheartening, 
when one comes to think of it, that such an important 
field of literature should have been overlooked. Can 
the omission be remedied for the benefit of future gene- 
rations ? 

At first blush it would seem as if this were possible, 
because women are more and more coming to take 
an equal share with men in the world's affairs. 
Women have already proved that they can write 
history and do it exceedingly well; that they can ana- 
lyze character, and do it well; in short, that in the 
particular fields of thought in which men have hither- 
to been thought to be supreme, women can do the 
work as well. The difficulty with such a hypothe- 
sis, however, is this: that no woman who is able to 
write about a man as he ought to be written about by 
a woman would ever marry a man who is worth 
while writing about. On the other hand, if men 
steadily decline in intelligence, as they seem to be 
doing, and women advance, great men will go out 
(as they seem to be going out), and it will then be- 
come a question whether any man will have capacity 
enough, in case he happens to be married to a great 
woman, to write about her in the way that she ought 
to be written about. 

It will doubtless be seen from this that the whole 
matter is quite complicated, and we should be in- 
clined to give it up forthwith, if it were not for the 



46 A NEW FIELD OF LITERATURE 

immense need for a new field in literature. Unless 
a new field is discovered very soon whole hordes of 
writers will have to do something else — they will have 
to go out and make a respectable living. It is no 
small job for any author to do this. Few authors 
know how to do anything useful, and would starve if 
they had to. Almost any popular author can, at a 
pinch, drive his car about, and possibly in an acute 
emergency manage to get a tire off and on. But that 
is about as much as he knows. Few authors have 
even the natural intelligence or steadiness of character 
to keep an eight-day clock going. They will let it go 
until it runs down, and then get the housemaid to 
wind it up again. Many of them indeed have to 
have their wrist-watches wound up by their wives. 
They have to be dressed by people specially trained 
for the purpose; their cravats have to be tied for 
them, their shoes removed at night; they require 
special foods to keep them alive; in matters of finance 
they are good only as far as their fingers count. They 
cannot pack a trunk or even a dress-suit case with- 
out having white trailers flowing out from the ends. 
Yet the opinions and the idle fancies of these men 
are awaited by the public with feverish expectancy, 
and their utterances are debated by sober people 
in horn glasses with obsequious solemnity. The 
reason for all this must be quite apparent to any close 
observer, for it is upon their ignorance that authors 



A NEW FIELD OF LITERATURE 47 

depend for a living. The proof of this lies in the 
fact that if a man knows a subject thoroughly and 
accurately, when he writes about it, he is invariably 
dull. The majority of people are ignorant; and to 
reach the majority, it is essential to be one with them. 
The way a thing looks is much more a source of profit 
than what it is; and the moving-picture star, therefore, 
is paid higher than the professor of mathematics. 

The majority of people, however, have been fed 
upon the various kinds of literature until they are 
sated with it. It is true that the war was a help, 
but it was only temporary — a sop for the multi- 
tude. On the day the armistice was signed, word 
went out from all the short-story centres of industries 
that there were to be no more stories of the war. 
There was wailing and gnashing of teeth in the 
home of many a short-story writer; strong men wept, 
and the plots of nine months of assembling were 
thrown on the scrap heap. Poetry has had a slight 
turn for the better, writers having discovered that 
they could write it without rhythm or rhyme, by 
merely juggling a lot of words together. But this 
sort of thing has no lasting hold. Something must 
be done. For the novelist a new sex must be in- 
vented, which, even considering the possibilities of 
woman suffrage, seems fairly remote. 

In all the long line of literature, however, there is 
nothing more permanently interesting than person- 



48 A NEW FIELD OF LITERATURE 

ality, and while there are still a few great men left, the 
right thing to do is to get their wives to write about 
them. 

Eve might have done it if she had had the facilities. 
Adam was new and green at the business; his psy- 
chology hadn't been developed; he had no complexes. 
He had never lost a fortune in Wall Street, nor had 
been loved by another woman. But he had it in 
him. The thing to do would have been to get him, 
fresh as he was, and analyze him. What we need is 
to get down to first principles. Our civilization 
is so vast we fail to recognize that, after all, it is made 
up of only a few elemental motives. When Adam 
took the apple, how simple and unadorned was his 
fall. Men are falling like that now every hour of the 
day, but the process has become so complicated that 
few eyes — even when equipped with horn glasses — can 
follow it accurately. Eve knew why he fell, and why 
he felt mad about it afterward, and all the monosyl- 
labic way in which he conducted himself. What a 
pity that she could not have called a stenographer, 
and made the first literary analysis of the first man! 

That the wives of great men suffer from this ob- 
stacle erected by the absurd canons of public taste 
must be evident. Napoleon's valet wrote about him, 
but what a poor rendering that is! All the books 
about him would have to be rewritten, if Josephine 
could only put down her real opinion. 



MY SUBWAY GUARD FRIEND 

I HAVE always wanted to have an intimate inter- 
view with a New York subway guard. Selecting 
one that I thought would answer my purpose, I ar- 
rayed myself in medieval armour, and sent up my 
card. 

He received me very pleasantly. 

"Sit down and make yourself at home," he said, 
throwing me across the room into a chair. "You 
don't know how to sit down, do you ? " He stood me 
on my head once or twice, broke a collar bone or so 
and I believe a rib, and arranged me in the proper 
manner. 

"There, that's better," he said. "Now, what can 
I do for you? Any little thing." 

My armour, which, though not made to order, 
fitted me fairly well when I entered, was now bent so 
as to occasion me some slight inconvenience. But 
I smiled brightly and replied: 

"I came in to know how you like your life- 
work?" 

"I was born to it," he replied, playfully putting 
his feet on my chest and gently exerting a four- 
hundred-pound pressure until I felt the wall behind 

49 



50 MY SUBWAY GUARD FRIEND 

me preparing to yield. "It's a great thing to under- 
stand your job, to like it, and to know that you are 
the right man in the right place." 

"Don't you find," I ventured, "that people are 
often rude to you?" 

"That is my cross," he replied. "The work of 
every real artist is handicapped by the misunderstand- 
ing of the purely vulgar; but I bear with them, I 
bear with them." 

He started to move me to the ceiling, when, think- 
ing that I might interest him in the details of his pro- 
fession, I asked: 

"At a guess, about how many people can you 
get into an ordinary subway car?" 

He smiled blithely and flicked the ashes of a su- 
perb stogie into my off eye. 

"It depends entirely upon my moods," he replied. 
"I am very temperamental. If I am feeling in fairly 
good condition, and at peace with all the world, I 
can get in about five thousand." 

"That is a goodly number," I ventured. The 
truth is, my mind was beginning to wander slightly, 
and my blood pressure, I should judge, was about 
one thousand, and I was afraid to start anything 
too definite. 

"I suppose," I added, as vaguely as possible, 
"that on your off days you couldn't pack in more 
than two or three hundred or possibly " 



MY SUBWAY GUARD FRIEND 51 

A hurt look came into his eye, and I saw his mus- 
cles begin to swell ominously. 

"Now you are guying me," he said. Picking 
me up and throwing me down, he stamped on me for 
a few moments until my new suit was something like 
a sheet of steel writing paper. Then he folded me 
up and shot me through the door. 

"Come around and see me again," he chortled, 
"I'm a little off to-day — not quite myself." 



BEST SELLERS I HAVE NEVER READ 

1HAVE never read a best seller. My general 
ignorance of these works of art — for so I am told 
they are — is profound and highly important. I am 
the only one I know who is capable of judging them 
entirely upon their merits, without any prejudice. 
It is always fatal to become familiar with anything 
which you wish to estimate correctly and with abso- 
lute justice. You are bound to take on a particular 
point of view, which, while personally interesting 
and more or less conclusive, is essentially worthless 
from a practical standpoint. I have talked with a 
great many people who are addicted to the habit 
of reading best sellers, but have never gotten any- 
thing out of them that was of the slightest value. 
Most of them are silent on the subject. They de- 
vour their best sellers, one after the other, without 
comment. They have no views on the subject any 
more than one has views on chocolate caramels. 
Others are distinctly voluble but entirely irresponsi- 
ble. They love some best sellers with a passionate 
love, although they never can tell you why, except 
to smile idiotically and declare they are the best 
things they ever read. They hate other best sellers 

52 



BEST SELLERS I HAVE NEVER READ 53 

with the same passion, and cannot understand how 
any one else can like them. As a basic and ab- 
solutely impregnable proposition, I have therefore 
great sympathy for the writers of best sellers, be- 
cause they are read by so many people that any 
genuine estimate of them is impossible. They cer- 
tainly need to be defended by someone who does 
not read them. 

There are also exclusive, highly intellectual, and 
no doubt occasionally intelligent people who do not 
regard best sellers as works of art, who declare that 
they are unworthy of serious respect. But I cannot 
say that the opinion of these critics seriously inter- 
ests me. From my vulgar and admittedly commer- 
cial viewpoint, best sellers have one great merit. They 
are read by large numbers of people, and this enables 
their authors to live in ease and comfort. Any one 
who in these days can manage to live in ease and 
comfort is certainly worthy of admiration. It is a 
great thing to be able to maintain yourself without 
borrowing money from your friends or occasioning 
them any particular anxiety. I have never met the 
author of a best seller, although I once called on 
Barkington Tooth — or is it Tarkington Booth? — 
and found him out, to my dismay. For I am quite 
sure, if I ever did meet one, I should not approach 
him beforehand with the thought that after all it 
might be well for me to lock up all my valuables in 



54 BEST SELLERS I HAVE NEVER READ 

the safe, and to remove my Waterbury watch from 
my off wrist. And that is a great deal to say of any 
maker of literature, alleged or otherwise. Why 
is it any more disgraceful to sell all the product of 
your brains while you are alive and can enjoy the 
proceeds — as in the case of George Barr Oppenheim 
or Mary Johnston McCutcheon — than to be like 
Shakespeare and Bunyan and others I might men- 
tion, and have the sales come a long time after you 
are dead? Is it anything against any man that 
he should honourably work for immediate results? 
If, for example, Goldsmith had had more of this 
best-seller spirit in him, think of how glad all his 
friends would have been when he asked them out to 
luncheon. 

In every age there is a certain small body of pro- 
fessional highbrows, who set up their own standards 
as the only standards worth while and assume that 
if any book commands a large audience it must neces- 
sarily be unworthy. I would not condemn these 
friends unjustly. I will even go so far as to say 
that a man may be a member of the Society of Arts 
and Letters and still have lurking somewhere within 
him the power to become known. But I do claim 
that just because an author is read, is no reason why 
he should be treated just like any ordinary million- 
aire. An ordinary millionaire extracts money from 
others without any power to interest them during 



BEST SELLERS I HAVE NEVER READ 55 

the proceeding. They do not sit up nights enjoying 
it. He may grip them, but not in that way. No- 
body likes to give up money to an ordinary million- 
aire, and the process is so unpleasant that, in order 
to get his results, the millionaire has to do business 
in devious ways. Not so the author of the best 
seller. He is frank and open, and everybody comes 
up and lays money down before him gladly, with the 
feeling that they are getting something for it that 
they can talk about to their friends. 

I can see no particular reason why the majority 
should not rule in literature as in other respects, and 
why they should not have the privilege of setting a 
standard of literature that will be recognized as the 
one and only standard. Why is not Harold Bell 
Churchill greater than Henry James? Why are 
not Winston Cecil Thurston and Sinclair Lewis 
Hergesheimer and MacConnor Grath greater than 
Samuel Butler and Thomas Love Peacock? 

Aside, however, from its power to place its author 
beyond the anxiety of the world at large, the best 
seller has another merit. It keeps a large majority 
of people from reading books that are not best sellers. 
If there were no more best sellers, everybody would 
have to fall back on Homer and Shakespeare and 
Samuel Richardson and Fielding and Jane Austen 
and the pocket editions of the classics. And where 
would we be then? In a short time the taste for 



56 BEST SELLERS I HAVE NEVER READ 

reading newspapers would decline and there would be 
nothing but bare accounts of what is happening in 
the world. Paper-mills would languish. Our trees 
would begin to grow in peace. Everybody would 
begin to cultivate his leisure. 



WOMEN WE ARE ALWAYS MARRYING 

AN ACCOUNT OF THE DOMESTICUS AMERICANUS 
MATRIMONIOUS, OR MANKIND IN THE MATING 

THE open season for matrimony begins in the 
early spring and extends well into the summer 
and autumn. Its greatest ravages are confined to the 
month of June, but the casualties have been known 
to be high even in October. Every four years the 
female of her species leaps from crag to crag in search 
of victims. Widows are particularly voracious and 
stalk their prey without special regard to locality 
or previous condition of servitude. Owing to the 
H. C. of L. and the talk going on in Congress (and 
elsewhere) the vitality of most men has been very 
low, and they have not been able to resist the ravages 
of matrimony. Without any visible means of sup- 
port, they have been carried off their feet and to their 
fate, unwept, unhonoured, and unsung. The only 
ray of sunlight on the matrimonial situation is 
that the female of her species now often makes such 
good money on her own account that she can sup- 
port a mate in comparative ease, without his doing 
a stroke of work. This is often a help, but is still the 
57 



58 WOMEN WE ALWAYS MARRY 

exception. Meanwhile, man as a whole is apparently 
doing nothing to prevent being married by the first 
woman who comes along. He prides himself upon 
his efficiency, but has devised no method of protecting 
himself from the female of her species. People are 
getting married all the time who never have given it 
a previous thought. We train for every other kind 
of servitude beforehand. You can't be a plumber, a 
political economist, a faro dealer, a theologian, a 
Wall Street broker, a printer, or even a bank presi- 
dent, a college professor, or a professional humourist 
without previously having your spirit broken to 
harness; but in matrimony a man waits until after- 
ward to have this happen. He plunges, or rather is 
dragged, into the stream without knowing what is 
going to happen to him. He is, of course, entirely 
unfitted for the job. He knows as little about 
handling a hired girl as his wife does — even less. He 
cannot make up a bed. He has no expert knowl- 
edge of dusting and sweeping. He couldn't check 
up a laundry list to save his life or set the table or 
bathe the baby without calling in the help of the 
local hospital and the fire department. And this 
utterly helpless creature is at the mercy of the first 
plumaged female who comes along, gives him an 
intimate smile, and says "Oh, Boy" to him with a 
certain inflection. Besides, you cannot pair them 
off against one another. They never hunt in pairs 



WOMEN WE ALWAYS MARRY 59 

but always singly. When you are quietly grazing 
in some sheltered business nook, scraping off from 
the rocks a few excess profits, there is a flutter of 
wings and you are carried away to Apartment 
Number 19 on the tenth floor, where the dumbwaiters 
never cease from creaking and the landlords grab 
what pay is left after your bride has rigged herself 
out in a new spring hat. 

And we excuse all this stupidity and almost crim- 
inal lack of forethought by laying it to Nature. We 
delude ourselves with the idea that Nature supplies 
us with instincts and, therefore, enables us to be 
appropriated by the right girl each time. The 
only trouble with this beautiful theory is that it 
doesn't work. For if we really obeyed it, a man 
would want to marry quite a large proportion of all 
the females he meets. Some do. But if the most 
of us did, we would be spending a large part of our 
alleged leisure time in jail. 

No, men of America, we cannot, we must not, hide 
behind Nature's apron strings any longer. We may 
as well face this thing first as last. The great issue 
of the near future is self-determination for all hus- 
bands. Falling in love must be put on a business 
basis, open courtships openly arrived at. Men 
must be privileged to make their own choice and ac- 
cept no substitutes — unless they so desire. The 
Flora and Fauna and general habits of the female 



60 WOMEN WE ALWAYS MARRY 

of her species must be studied and classified with a 
view to getting a basis of inter-matrimonial agree- 
ment. Eventually there must be a hymeneal clear- 
ing house, where, if necessary, wives can be exchanged 
without disturbing the balance of home trade. Now, 
if a man substitutes one wife for another, it costs so 
much that the rate of exchange is likely to upset even 
the local plumber's union. Besides, matrimony 
at present is not altogether an affair between two 
people. Take the question of relatives. It used 
to be so that when a man married he could transport 
his wife to a sheltered home and settle down in com- 
parative security. But this is no longer possible. 
It is a mighty poor relative now that hasn't at least 
one motor car, and also they can always get you over 
the phone. And they do, fellows, as nice as some 
of them may be. 

In order that we may know more and more where 
we stand or fall, a brief description of the most im- 
portant specimens of female will be an aid to the 
numerous innocent young men who are even now 
coming into the matrimonial hunting preserves. 

The Sporticus Athleticus ranges in age from six- 
teen to sixty, and can be seen in large numbers on 
golf links and in tennis courts, where they leap about 
and utter short cries of rage or victory as the case 
may be. They rarely settle down, and when mar- 
ried, use their homes for a base of supplies. Their 



WOMEN WE ALWAYS MARRY 61 

husbands are used largely for changing tires or look- 
ing for lost balls. 

The Vampire is a species not indigenous to any 
climate, but seen in all parts, although its true 
habitat is the Atlantic and Pacific coasts and the 
Rialto. Attempts have been made to domesticate 
the Vampire, but with small success, although some 
of the village varieties have at times yielded to the 
subtle lure of the kitchen sink and the cosy corner. 

The House Martinet is seen in considerable num- 
bers in the suburbs, where she roams from piazza 
to piazza in summer and discusses the qualities of 
her captive husband with others of her species. She 
lives to a great age, thrives on worry, and prides 
herself on being the only specimen of her sex who 
knows how to keep house, thus making miserable all 
who come within her stamping ground. 

The Blue Crested Orator in her youthful state is 
frequently beautiful and looks extremely well on 
grandstands, which are her favourite haunt. Her 
voice can be heard at all hours of the day and night, 
and she ranges from coast to coast, perching at night 
on the picket fence in front of the White House. 

The Bat Winged Highbrow first came from the 
the Back Bay region, Boston, and gradually spread 
as far west as Lawrence, Kansas, where numbers can 
now be seen grazing on the University playgrounds. 
They emit frequent cries of intelligence, and spend 



62 WOMEN WE ALWAYS MARRY 

their time at authors' readings and musicales, thus 
giving their husbands a breathing spell. Their in- 
stincts are sharply developed and they frequently 
find their way home from long distances without 
the aid of the Supreme Court. 

The Jazzer and the Golden Spender are both beauti- 
ful specimens, frequently seen together. The Jazzer 
as a rule never rises before noon, however, while the 
Golden Spender is busy shopping from dawn until 
dusk. She is known by the great extent and variety 
of her bills. 

The Domesticated Darling, if not the most popular 
species, is the one that ought to be most in demand, 
and the one that all men eventually want to marry. 
She spends her time on the home nest, divides her 
duties with her mate, never flies too high or too low, 
grows more beautiful as time goes on, and is fre- 
quently referred to as "good old pal." She is the 
only specimen that no man need be afraid of. Tell 
me, please, why not? 



WHAT IS ADVERTISING? 

THE APPLE WHICH EVE HANDED ADAM WAS THE FIRST 
MEDIUM. WELL, WHY NOT? 

EVERYTHING in this country has been de- 
fined except advertising. Congress has been 
defined. And so have War and Peace, Theology, 
Cubism, Baseball, Golf, Wall Street, Kansas, Hell, 
Tammany Hall, and why a woman steps off a car 
backward. 

Many attempts have been made to define advertis- 
ing, but none of them has succeeded. 

What advertising is nobody knows. Everybody 
thinks he knows. I do not know. If I did know I 
would not be writing about it. 

But although I do not know about advertising I 
think I know. When we don't know about a thing 
but think we do, we always want to tell what we 
think it is. 

Advertising is like electricity. We use it, we ap- 
pear to create it for ourselves, and we know next to 
nothing about it. It is in the very air. Every 
advertisement writer is a dynamo. Some of them 
are short-circuited. Some of them emit only a 
63 



64 WHAT IS ADVERTISING? 

feeble spark. Some of them are eighty-newspaper 
power. 

When an eighty-newspaper advertisement gets into 
a one-horsepower paper the current is too strong 
for the wire, isn't it? But it gets there somehow. 
Query: Can you knock down buyers better with an 
eighty-newspaper power advertisement in a one- 
horsepower paper than you can with a one-horsepower 
advertisement in an eighty-newspaper power paper? 

Advertising is the master spirit of the age. Every 
nation, every race has its supreme art. The Greeks 
had architecture and sculpture and — Greeks! The 
Egyptians had undertaking and embalming. It 
was always a pleasure for any man to be an Egyptian, 
because he could still advertise himself after he died. 
Rome had law; we are subsisting upon the remnants 
yet. Most of them are pretty poor picking. Amer- 
ica has advertising. 

Yet nobody quite realizes the wonder of America's 
high art. We are using it so much we ought to know 
what it is doing to us. 

What is it? 

Advertising is bounded on the north by the North 
Pole, on the south by the South Pole, on the east by 
the East Pole, and on the west by the West Pole. 
You knew before that there are no East and West 
poles, didn't you? Well, that is advertising. 

Advertising is telling a man about something he 



WHAT IS ADVERTISING? 65 

either knows about already or wants to know about. 
Literature is the same thing. So advertising is liter- 
ature and literature is advertising. 

When advertising is not literature, it is not ad- 
vertising. The test of literature is knowing what 
to omit. That is the test of advertising. 

Bad advertising is trying too hard. It always 
has in it, somewhere, an unpleasant urge. Some- 
times, however, you will buy an article in spite of 
the manner in which it is being advertised. 

Good advertising is making it difficult for a man 
not to buy something which you have not told him 
he wanted, but have called to his attention. 

Advertising is natural display. A beautiful girl 
does not hang a sign out, "Kissing Done Here." 
She goes out where the suitors are. She doesn't 
do much but sit still. She sits in the osculatory 
highway, where osculation merchants live and move 
and have their being. 

She keeps pretty. She puts white margins around 
her to set herself off. She doesn't crowd and lean 
on the column rules. She doesn't keep repeating 
"I'm pretty." If she said that she looked pretty 
and she wasn't, would those osculation merchants be 
fooled ? If she said, " Please come and kiss me; you'll 
find it to your advantage," would she gain anything 
by that? They know what she is by looking at her. 

Eve was a good advertiser. When she handed 



66 WHAT IS ADVERTISING? 

the apple to brother Adam, she didn't tell him it 
would make him a millionaire. She told him it 
would increase his knowledge, would give him a wider 
range. Eve could have sold encyclopaedias or motor 
cars. 

Why did Adam take the apple? He was curious. 
Eve told him she could satisfy his curiosity. She 
did. Advertising, therefore, is satisfying curiosity. 
You do this by a display. 

Advertising is being there. When a pretty girl 
advertises herself she has only two rules: The first 
is be there, the second is get there. Being there, 
therefore, is the most important thing about advertis- 
ing. The good advertiser does only half the work. 
The man who buys meets him halfway. 

Advertising — real advertising, not false — is the 
outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual 
conviction. The first requisite for a writer of ad- 
vertisements, therefore, is that he shall be converted 
to the value of his product. He must experience it 
in just the way one experiences religion. No ad- 
vertisement writer ought to try too hard to sell his 
wares. All he should do is to believe in them and 
write about them. 

When a man buys a thing which you have shown 
that you are anxious to sell, it is because he wants it 
so much that he is willing to buy it in spite of the 
fact that you are so anxious to sell it. 



WHAT IS ADVERTISING? 67 

To be a good writer of advertisements a man must 
know how to suffer and be happy. He must know 
enough to sympathize with the thing he is advertis- 
ing. He must know even more — to believe it is the 
only thing being advertised. Too many advertise- 
ment writers are priding themselves that they are 
doing it better than the other fellow. Forget the 
other fellow. Keep your eyes in the boat. 

Think of the articles back of some of the advertise- 
ments we see, and how they must suffer! Think 
of these perfectly good articles muttering to them- 
selves and saying: 

"Oh, if I could only get out and show them what 
I can do, instead of being poorly praised for so many 
of the things that people don't even want to know 
about." 

There are three rules in writing advertisements: 

The first is to know what you are talking about. 

The second is to talk what you know about. 

The third is to forget the first two. 

The best rule in writing advertisements is to make 
them so interesting that people will read them. 

Most people take periodicals for the advertise- 
ments that are in them. It is easy to prove this be- 
cause periodicals that have the least number of 
advertisements are the least read. The best way 
to start any periodical, therefore, is to print only 
advertisements first and gradually lead up to the 



68 WHAT IS ADVERTISING? 

reading matter. Make sure of your readers — after 
that you don't care what happens. You get a com- 
plete serial with every advertisement, plot, action, 
and all. You have confidence in the man who wrote 
it, because you know, not only that he gets paid, 
but he is interested in producing a definite result 
and he is doing his level best. 

But the regular contributor who writes the read- 
ing matter may have made such a reputation before- 
hand that he doesn't care what kind of work he turns 
out. You like the advertisement writer's work be- 
cause he is frankly prejudiced. Every advertise- 
ment writer believes in something. That is where he 
is always likely to have the advantage of the con- 
tributor. To be prejudiced in favour of your prod- 
uct is the first necessity of good writing. Macaulay 
was prejudiced. Jeremiah was prejudiced. 

I have not yet fully explained what advertising is. 
I intended to do this, but I became so much inter- 
ested in the subject that I forgot it. How often 
that happens with writers of real literature! 

Advertising is personality combined with creative 
ability plus conviction and honesty. 

Shakespeare recreated Hamlet from an old play 
and then advertised him in a new one. Most of 
the men who write advertisements get someone else 
first to manufacture their products for them. The 
day is coming, however, when the advertisement 



WHAT IS ADVERTISING? 69 

writer may be such a supreme artist that a special 
article will be manufactured for him to write about, 
just as plays are now written for theatrical stars. 

Shakespeare created his own product on the spot, 
while you waited. He was a good business man and 
made money by the sale of his products — Hamlet, 
Macbeth, Othello, etc. Kipling found India already 
made, and advertised it and made money out of it. 
He laid a track from India to the reading public. 

Ideas count, not methods or systems. Ideas 
spring from personality. Personality is hidden 
within the recesses of that singular creation, Man. 
For this reason, the human note tells most, in ad- 
vertising as in all else. That is why the advertis- 
ing artist must cultivate his spirit, not his mind. 
Emotion, sympathy, sentiment, feeling, and restraint: 
these are the concomitants of genius. 

Now the best advertising, like the best literature, 
is the fruit of meditation. Every advertising writer 
should meditate upon his product, all ready to spring 
full-born from this supreme meditation. He must 
perceive its spirit and the idea back of it, whether it 
be a hundred-ton engine or a popgun. He must be 
in tune with the "infinite capacity for taking pains" 
back of it. He must become one with it. That is 
what makes the best advertising interesting reading. 
I read it because I perceive the man loves his idea. 
Maybe it isn't the best idea. But he loves it, he 



70 WHAT IS ADVERTISING? 

has reduced it to its simplest terms. That is enough. 
He is never dull, because brevity is the soul of ad- 
vertising and time and the column rule wait for no 
man. There is never, in advertising, any doubt 
what the man means. What a relief that, after 
reading so much of our current literature! 

Advertising, in its highest form, is therefore only 
art. It is not an art of definition, but of display, 
just as Shakespeare displayed Hamlet or the Penn- 
sylvania Railroad displays its station. You do 
not see signs over this station which read: "Oh, 
will you please enter here? This is the best station 
you ever saw, isn't it ? " The magnificent thing stands 
for itself. So with all real advertising. There is no 
urge to it. The best advertisement in the world 
is the Sphinx, silent for countless centuries — a pure 
type of display. 

The best advertising has only that insistence which 
comes from the perfection of display. If you want 
the article, the art with which it is presented must 
so impress you that when you need it, whether now 
or hereafter, you will know where it is. It is the 
highest form of persuasion, because the revelation 
of its merit is in its form. For this reason it needs 
not to carry any invitation. It is based upon the 
eternal principle that it would not first have been 
made if you did not want it. 



FOUND 

THERE was once a young man, Svetaketu 
Aruneya, who was unlearned in the things of 
this world, and he set out to discover the beautiful. 
He went to a sculptor, and to the sculptor he said: 

"What is the most beautiful thing in the world ?" 

The sculptor took him into a studio and showed 
him an inchoate mass of marble upon which he had 
been working for some time, and he said : 

"This is the most beautiful thing in the world." 

Svetaketu Aruneya was not satisfied, and so he 
journeyed on and came to a young man like unto 
himself, and he said unto him: 

"Tell me, I pray you, what is the most beautiful 
thing in the world?" 

And the young man's eyes glowed with pride and he 
led him away to where a freckle-faced girl was tossing 
hay in the meadow. She had large ankles and her hair 
was frowzy and unkempt, and the young man said : 

"There, O Student, is by far the most beautiful 
thing in the world." 

But Svetaketu Aruneya was still not satisfied, and 
so he journeyed on to a city, and he came to the head 
politician, and he said: 

7i 



72 FOUND 

"O Politician, tellest thou me what is the most 
beautiful thing in the world. " 

Thereupon the politician smiled and answered: 

"O Son of Curiosity, that which is most beautiful 
is most invisible. That which has the truest curve 
and is most pleasing to the senses is that which one 
cannot behold." 

Then the politician took him to the capitol, and he 
waved his arms and he said: 

"The most beautiful thing in the world, O Earnest 
Young Man, is the last bill which I succeeded in 
getting through the Legislature." 

Still Svetaketu Aruneya was not satisfied, and he 
left the city and wandered along the road, and at the 
foot of the hill he saw a small boy playing in the dust, 
and the boy's eyes were bright with a shining light. 
And Svetaketu Aruneya said to him: . 

"O Youth, so much younger than I, and in whom 
wisdom may therefore dwell, tell me, I pray you, 
what is the most beautiful thing in the world." 

And the youth lifted his hand to the top of the 
hill, and the road went straight up and was lost be- 
yond, and he drew his finger across the top of the 
hill, where the vanishing line of the road made its 
horizon, and he said: 

"O Stranger, over there beyond that hill lies the 
most beautiful thing in the world." 

"Are you sure?" asked Svetaketu Aruneya. 



FOUND 73 

"I am sure," said the youth. 

And Svetaketu Aruneya knew at that instant that 
what the youth said was true, and that the most 
beautiful thing in the world lay beyond the line 
of the road; yet he wanted to be sure, and he said 
again to the youth : 

"I believe you when you say that the most beauti- 
ful thing in the world lies over beyond the line, but 
one more question: Have you been over there and 
seen it?" 

"Not yet," said the youth. 



AMONG THE POVERTY-STRICKEN 
MILLIONAIRES 

A SOCIETY for the relief of New Yorkers who 
are getting incomes of fifty thousand dollars 
a year will soon have to be formed, or the nation 
must take the consequences. This is no joke. It 
is an intensely serious matter made more so by the 
general public ignorance with regard to the distress- 
ing conditions in which so many fifty-thousand-a- 
year families are living in New York. 

Our people as a whole must be educated up to this 
problem. They must see it in its true light. Recent 
investigations among these poverty-stricken mil- 
lionaires have shown that it is no longer possible for 
a family of six — husband and wife and four children — 
to subsist comfortably on fifty thousand a year. The 
figures speak for themselves. At present the poverty- 
stricken rich are not confined to any district. They 
are more or less scattered. Many of them reached 
their present condition from the comparative ease 
and comfort of fifteen a year. That they need 
help is without question. They are, of course, in- 
tensely proud. One has to approach them with 
tact. Fortunately it happens, however, that many 

74 



POVERTY-STRICKEN MILLIONAIRES 75 

of them do not realize their state as they have never 
known another. 

I have recently visited a number of these un- 
fortunates in the hope of discovering some method 
of ameliorating their unhappy condition. Up to 
the present time no solution of the problem is in 
sight. But we must not despair. Time and pa- 
tience are with us. 

A typical case is that of Mr. and Mrs. E , who 

live on the upper east side off Fifth Avenue. 

I visited this family recently. The women were 
huddled over a bridge table in the second living 
room, talking fitfully to themselves, one of them 
trying to keep score with a pencil that had not been 
sharpened in several weeks. The place was fairly 
well heated, but pinched faces told the tale of under- 
nourishment. One of the ladies had nothing to 
eat but lobster Newburg, chicken patties, and marron 
glace for forty hours. She showed it. The weather 
has been quite severe, and I particularly noticed the 
absence of warm clothing. The eldest daughter, who 
might have been twenty-five, and who had been in 
her prime undoubtedly a handsome and well-favoured 
girl, was thinly clad in open-work stockings and some 
sort of filmy material that barely covered her neck 
and shoulders. These unfortunates are naturally 
sensitive to their hapless condition, so I had to be 
careful in approaching her. 



76 POVERTY-STRICKEN MILLIONAIRES 

"My child," I said, "when you go out into the 
cold air what you need is a union suit of some warm 
woollen material, or at least a flannel shawl to throw 
over your head. What I fear is that you are heed- 
less about yourself/' 

"What do you expect me to do?" she said, petu- 
lantly, "spend my time in stopping up cracks in the 
limousine? It is true that I am still running along 
on last year's furs, and ostrich plumes and aigrettes, 
with the exception of a couple of toques, are the only 
headgear I have." 

The mother of the family was even more obdu- 
rate. 

"If you have come here to taunt us with some of 
the privations we are accustomed to endure, you 
might better be engaged elsewhere." 

"I have not come to taunt you, but to help you," 
I said gently. "I am not going to offer you money, 
but sympathy and friendship." 

"You'd better talk to my husband," she said, "and 
don't interrupt us. He's been looking for sympathy 
ever since we were married. You will find him in 
the library working over his income tax." 

On my way to see what help I could render this 
unfortunate gentleman I ran across the butler who 
told me the worst. He stated that he hadn't been 
paid for three months. 

"I 'aven't the 'eart to leave 'em, sir," he said. 



POVERTY-STRICKEN MILLIONAIRES 77 

"They're bearin' this 'igh cost of living so brave like, 
it do seem a pity to be 'indered by disloyal 'elp." 

The husband, who evidently thought I had come 
to collect a bill, made a dive for the house elevator 
as I entered the room, and would undoubtedly have 
escaped had I not grabbed him in the nick of time. 
He was much shaken. He told me afterward that he 
had sat in a downtown broker's office for four days 
in succession without any one offering him even a 
club sandwich. 

"As man to man," I said, forcing him into a chair 
and facing him, "Let us meet this thing together. 
Remember, you are not the only New Yorker who 
has to keep his growing family alive on fifty thousand 
a year. There are others. We must think of them. 
You are all in the same boat. If your problem can 
be solved it will also apply to them." 

"I'll bet you're a Kansas or Missouri farmer," 
he said, "and have come here to gloat over my 
poverty. Or maybe you're one of those statisticians." 

"I am only a simple-minded author," I replied, 
"and, therefore, not able to supply you with any 
amount of real money; but your secret is safe with 
me. Let us first get at the exact facts, and discover, 
if possible, what led you to this unfortunate state." 

"It was due to my ability and my ambition, those 
twin deities of destruction," he replied, "if I hadn't 
trained myself to earn fifty thousand a year, all would 



78 POVERTY-STRICKEN MILLIONAIRES 

have been well. How happy we were," he added, 
"when we were only getting five." 

"You could live on five thousand a year?" I 
ventured. 

"Dear me," he replied. "Any family can live 
on five thousand a year — or less. But not fifty. As 
you begin to go up in the scale and your earning ca- 
pacity increases, you reach the poverty line which — 
for a family of six — I should say is between fifteen 
and twenty thousand. Beyond that is misery, want, 
actual privation. Look at me. We haven't had a 
new car now in eight months and my butler" — he 
almost broke down — "hasn't " 

"Don't," I interrupted, soothingly, "I understand. 
The poor wretch confided in me as I came in. You 
mustn't let him get on your nerves. Come now, 
old fellow, brace up and tell me all. It will do you 
good to unburden yourself." 

That was almost too much. Apparently no one 
had spoken a kind word to him in so long that it 
almost unnerved him. However, his voice grew 
stronger and he went on : 

"I haven't always been a New Yorker," he began. 
"I was happy once. When I was getting only five 
thousand a year we were all comfortable because 
I didn't have to spend anything extra for what I was 
getting." 

"I don't follow you," I said. 



POVERTY-STRICKEN MILLIONAIRES 79 

"It's perfectly simple. I have to pay for get- 
ting fifty thousand a year. They expect it. For one 
thing, we have to know a lot of people. That's what 
costs money. If I didn't know a lot of people I 
couldn't make fifty thousand a year and because I 
know them I can't live on it. I'm below the poverty 
line. Look at this house. If it isn't redecorated 
soon — it has been done once since last summer — all 
the people who know me will begin to think that I am 
short of money and this will queer me with the 
people who pay me fifty thousand a year." 

" But don't they know you are short ? You are all 
in the same boat, aren't you?" 

He lowered his voice. 

"Sh!" he said, "of course we know it. But we 
never admit it. All they do is whisper, because if 
they made too much of a fuss, they know it would 
impair my efficiency and might stop them from get- 
ting anything at all. You see how it works. It's 
a great system." 

The poor man groaned. I joined him. 

"I don't suppose fifty thousand a year gets any- 
where with you," I said, thinking that by telling I 
knew how bad off he was, it would make him feel 
better. 

"How can it?" he chattered. "Why, summer 
furs alone for three women will eat up one quarter 
of my income. The government takes about a third 



80 POVERTY-STRICKEN MILLIONAIRES 

of it. What's a thousand a week among six when 
a third and then a quarter is sliced off? To say- 
nothing of help! We gave a dinner dance last week 
that cost five thousand and the missus said she was 
ashamed to look our guests in the face, it was so 
simple." 

At this moment his wife and two daughters en- 
tered the room, their faces wreathed in smiles. 

"Oh, papa," they chorused, "what do you think? 
We won eighty dollars!" 

He turned to me and wrung my hand silently. 

"You see," he said, "Providence does watch over 
the poor, after all. This will tide us over till to- 
morrow morning and perhaps pay the butler some- 
thing on account." 

And then secretly pressing a V into his hand, al- 
though I knew it was wrong, I left him and his flock 
to his fate. 



THE SPRING EFFICIENT 

THERE must be something wrong with science 
when it has not yet been able to produce an 
efficient spring. 

Those of us who are thoroughly disorderly and 
irresponsible and reckless and exasperatingly care- 
less, and wish to quote some high authority as an 
example, can point to Spring with superb confidence. 
Spring has no regard for anybody's feelings. She 
went out into Nature's backyard one day and got 
hold of the paint pot when the nice, orderly painter 
was away looking up the plans and specifications. 
She slammed the brush into the pot, and the April 
tears fairly running down her blooming cheeks with 
laughter, slapped on all the colours of the rainbow 
in all the places that you wouldn't think of — that 
you wouldn't dare think of. 

No interior decorator to whom you pay a hundred 
dollars a day for his advice and presence and moral 
uplift would think of doing a thing like that. No 
colour scheme is safe with Spring. There are so 
many things the matter with her that we feel that it 
is something which we ought not to talk about. 

It's bad enough to be disorderly, to be so utterly 

81 



82 THE SPRING EFFICIENT 

regardless of all system, to defy all the rules of in- 
telligent philosophers and other well-known experts; 
but Spring is much worse than this. She is an un- 
moral person. She would be arrested and locked up 
in Boston. 

Spring makes her own clothes — and she never 
bought a sewing-machine on the installment plan 
or threaded a needle. They are always blowing off 
of her, and she's always slapping on new ones with- 
out the slightest regard to what's being worn. You 
never see her reading a domestic magazine or taking 
the dressmaking course in a woman's educational 
institute. She kicks off the coverlets, jumps out 
of bed, runs out of the house with scarcely anything 
on, and dresses shamelessly in the open. No wonder 
she draws crowds. And how she wastes ! 

Eventually, we feel certain, Spring will be under 
government control. All she needs is a little health- 
ful preliminary publicity. Exposure will come once 
too often. 

Science must do this for us. We need a few stir- 
ring and masterful articles on Spring by some leading 
college professors. No one would dream of institut- 
ing a great reform like putting Spring on a paying 
basis without first having it appropriately written 
up by a bevy of college presidents. The poets have 
tried it and failed. Poets have written about Spring 
so much that nobody now would believe anything 



THE SPRING EFFICIENT 83 

they said, even if it were true. That shows you how 
careful you must be in using your power. 

Spring makes us shiver at the hopelessly irrelevant 
things she does. She needs to be taken in hand by 
some committee of representative citizens. In- 
vestigation by itself will do no good. Everybody 
has investigated Spring from time immemorial, and 
where are they? 

But what may not be done with her by our modern 
machinery? Eugenics, college presidents, representa- 
tive committees, editorial writers — with all this 
help, what cannot be done with Spring to make her 
a good citizen — if we get after her in due season ? 



PUTTING OUR LITERATURE ON A 
LITERARY BASIS. WELL, WHY NOT? 

IT SEEMS quite a singular and unusual circum- 
stance that among all the reforms that are now be- 
ing evolved to make the human race in the United 
States any better, no attention has been paid to our 
literature. We have government ownership of rail- 
roads and stomachs, we have municipal surveys 
and multifarious educational innovations, which 
are modestly announced by their creators as continu- 
ously competent to produce infant phenomena at 
will. Even the circulation of our blood is super- 
vised by boards of health, and immediately after 
the preliminary advertising and official announce- 
ment of every new disease, wide-awake doctors in- 
vent a new serum to cure it. Now to most of us it 
is commonly known that our desires originate in the 
mind. After the mind has let them loose, they start 
out upon the ignoble business of playing hob with 
the body. But it is only after this has taken place — 
when in fact the damage has been done — that our 
reformers step in and insist upon regulating the body 
■ — a method so extraordinarily stupid that nobody 
but man could have invented it. Meanwhile, the 
8 4 



LITERATURE ON A LITERARY BASIS 85 

mind is left to shift for itself, and having no rudder, 
soon becomes a derelict. Thus, as we walk up and 
down the beach of modern civilization, we see the 
flotsam and jetsam of countless minds, wrecked by 
newspapers, moving-pictures, and jazz bands. 

There are some captious people who claim that, 
as we have no real literature, the imitation can 
scarcely be worth saving. But this is only the 
view of the so-called intellectual — a species of human 
being that lives on the high plateaus of alleged 
thought, jumps from paradox to paradox, and sub- 
sists largely on vers libre, cubisms, and other sterile 
combinations in restraint of common sense. We 
undoubtedly have a literature, but opinions differ 
as to what it is. Does it consist of the works of 
Edith Wharton, or of Robert W. Chambers? Is 
it something that can penetrate the mind of a con- 
gressman at a distance of 13,000 yards; or, at a dis- 
tance say of ten goose steps, can excite the passionate 
admiration of the editorial staff of The New Re- 
public ? 

"Literature," declares the versatile Mr. Webster, 
"is the total of preserved writings belonging to a 
given language or people." This is comprehensive 
and lucid. Those writings that are not preserved 
are evidently not literature. An ingenious Amer- 
ican librarian has already undertaken to circumvent 
this by requesting authors to send him the original 



86 LITERATURE ON A LITERARY BASIS 

manuscripts of their works for him to hand down to 
posterity. He has overlooked a fact that it is quite 
natural for an American librarian to overlook, 
namely, that literature is mental, not physical; and 
that it really consists of a body of words and phrases 
that are handed down by a very few of one generation 
to a very few of another; that are preserved in minds, 
and not on book-shelves. Some years ago I was inter- 
ested to learn that there had been sold in this country 
two hundred and seventy-six copies of the "Upani- 
shads," that work of Indian philosophy which Schop- 
enhauer characterized as the finest reading in the 
world — a work that in the course of thousands of 
years has crossed the European continent, and al- 
though only one American in hundreds of thousands 
knows anything about it, will doubtless continue 
to live for thousands of years longer, when quite 
possibly Arthur Brisbane and Harold Bell Wright 
are forgotten. 

So far as literature itself is concerned, it is largely 
a question of memory and hearsay — memory on the 
part of the few who keep it alive in their thoughts, 
and hearsay on the part of the many. There are 
undoubtedly people who still read Shakespeare. 
There are many who do not read him, but who would 
be outraged if you should ask them if they had ever 
heard of him. His is a familiar name to the Ameri- 
can public, and is even known to members of the 



LITERATURE ON A LITERARY BASIS 87 

theatrical profession; but along with many others 
in English literature who might be favourably men- 
tioned, he is scarcely ever seen in congress. 

We must undoubtedly be thinking of getting 
something together in this country that, in time, 
will take the place of the work of these English 
worthies of bygone days. Something must be done 
to put our literature on a posterity basis. It must 
be codified and assembled and systematized. Ber- 
nard Shaw has several times been requested to come 
over here and start a literature, but he has preferred 
to slam us at a distance. It is a curious fact that 
many of our natives who might have gotten our 
literature going, have given up the job and quit. 
There was Henry James who took up his residence 
in London, and even Mrs. Wharton appears to pre- 
fer Italy. We must do something to keep our promi- 
nent authors at home. 

Nobody knows, of course, what our literature is 
going to be until afterward. And then it will be too 
late. Some hidden genius who is struggling along 
on five or ten thousand a year writing screen cap- 
tions may become the Rochefoucauld of the future. 
The best we can do is to lay out a plan in which 
the whole realm of our literature may be duly sur- 
veyed and reorganized. Mr. Burleson, our official 
zonemaster, did what he could. He saw very clearly 
that our literature, such as it is, must be duly re- 



88 LITERATURE ON A LITERARY BASIS 

stricted. His idea was that eventually, under our 
postal dispensation, a magazine containing certain 
embryonic gems of literature which starts out to a 
subscriber from the Atlantic coast will, by the time 
it reaches the Pacific, become a classic. Apparently 
he had not the same ideas as that divulged by an 
eminent Southern senator, who declared that his own 
state was fully capable of producing a literature 
of its own and wanted an embargo placed on all 
printed material coming from the outside world. 
Mr. Burleson did not go so far as this. He would 
not kill off all the magazines at once, the way the 
prohibitionists have done to the grape growers of 
California. He would let them live along for several 
years, meeting taxes and death on the instalment 
plan. 

Certainly this method, while it may have its 
special merits, is applied at the wrong end. It 
delays until the raw material from which literature 
is eventually made has established itself; and then 
proceeds to throttle it; whereas a much simpler way 
is to guard the source and in the very beginning to 
admit nobody who doesn't show some signs of incipi- 
ent literary talent. For example, what would be 
thought of the management of a club that admitted 
everybody to membership and after they were all 
in, went around and sandbagged all the undesirables? 
The correct thing to do with our literature is to begin 



LITERATURE ON A LITERARY BASIS 89 

at the beginning, to have a properly organized de- 
partment for the examination of those wishing to en- 
ter literature and to establish schools where they can 
be taught. 

At present any one in America can be literary who 
wants to be without taking out a license. If the presi- 
dent of a bank or a packers' trust wishes to take a 
correspondence course in short-story writing, nobody 
can stop him. Any one can become a playwright 
or a professor of political economy in a western 
university, or if he wants to enter literature via 
Scribner's Magazine, can acquire a three months' 
residence at Princeton. Any one who has capital 
enough to hire a dress suit by the week and thus 
be able to appear at literary banquets, can become 
a publisher. Nature, it is quite true, often steps 
in and tries to preserve a certain balance, as when a 
writer of popular songs becomes so ambitious that 
he learns to read and write English, thereby drying 
up his inspiration and cutting off his income. But 
nature is no longer doing the great work that she did. 
Labour-saving devices and modern methods of 
efficiency are rapidly usurping her ancient privileges. 

Before being permitted to enter literature, every- 
one should be officially examined, subjected to cer- 
tain tests, and be required if necessary to furnish 
a bond for the keeping of the literary peace. It is 
true that in the past there have been a number of 



9 o LITERATURE ON A LITERARY BASIS 

really first-class authors who succeeded without this 
kind of supervision, but that is only because they 
were naturally so bright that nothing could stop them. 
Homer and Dante did as well as could be expected of 
them, considering that the first had to travel around 
without a portable typewriter and the second had to 
invent a hell of his own without any help from Billy 
Sunday. Consider, however, what they might have 
done if before turning out their gems of thought they 
could have taken the Harvard dramatic course, 
matriculated from the school of journalism at Co- 
lumbia, met Amy Lowell, or lived in Kansas. 

The great trouble with our present system is, 
not that it isn't efficient, but that it has not been 
duly coordinated and brought under the control of 
authority. Literature in America is now in much 
the same condition that our railroads were before 
the Government took them over. That is to say, 
it is prosperous, at least to a degree. It is an affair 
of private enterprise, its proletariat not yet having 
developed enough mentality to adopt a defensive 
system of union labour. No Samuel Gompers has 
risen among us, although I am bound to say that 
Ellis Parker Butler has done the best he could. 
Nobody ever hears of the joke writers going out on 
strike; these poor wretches are not even organized, 
the nearest approach to such a thing being the annual 
meeting of the newspaper humourists, a sort of clear- 



LITERATURE ON A LITERARY BASIS 91 

ing house of melancholy. Immense profits are made 
by a few writers on top, who have either struck the 
rock of cheap sentiment and made it gush forth its 
thousands, or who are living a life of shame under 
Hearst. The rank and file are, as I have intimated, 
constantly increasing, lured on by literary agents 
and the horrible fascination of seeing one's name in 
print. 

As to the ultimate solution of this problem of 
putting our literature on a literary basis, modesty 
prevents me from setting forth too rashly a defi- 
nite programme of reconstruction. We must move 
slowly. I suggest first a preliminary meeting of 
psychologists. Any one hereafter who wishes to enter 
our literature should be subpoenaed to appear before 
these gentlemen and be subjected to the Binet test. 
If in sixty seconds he can distinguish red from green 
or blue from yellow, can repeat "The Star-Spangled 
Banner," the Gettysburg Address, and the Covenant 
of Peace, admits that he admires publishers and proof- 
readers, has never heard of the word meticulous, and 
is living on good terms with his wife, then he should 
be thrown out. He is not fit to enter American 
literature. 



WHAT ARE THE REQUIREMENTS OF 
A NOVEL ? 

THIS IS SOMEWHAT SERIOUS. WELL, WHY NOT? 

DO YOU know of a good book?" is probably 
the most frequent question asked by the aver- 
age person in search of the mental recreation that 
comes from reading. The answer to this question 
does not lie in any analysis of novel writing from the 
standpoint of the author. The reader is the one who 
creates the demand. What does he want? That 
is the standpoint to be considered first. 

And the first thing that suggests itself is that, as 
the standpoints of readers vary according to their 
environment and culture, there can be no standard 
by which a "good" book can be judged. If this is 
true there would be no case. We should have to 
stop short. But experience shows that there is an 
extraordinary agreement about certain books among 
a large variety of readers. Experiments by librarians 
have brought out the fact that people who patronize 
a library rather aimlessly, and have no well-defined 
standards of their own, will begin first* on the lower 
order of books, but will gradually, of their own 
92 



THE REQUIREMENTS OF A NOVEL 93 

accord, gravitate to higher levels. They will first 
be attracted by the good story, and that it is crudely 
written will not trouble them. Little by little, 
however, they acquire the rudiments of a taste that 
constantly tends to make them more careful in their 
selections. 

But if this is true on the part of the most uncul- 
tivated readers, on the other hand it is also true that 
the most cultivated people, especially if their lives 
are greatly occupied, will often seek lower levels in 
search of that kind of abstraction that comes from 
a story of action. Thus we have Justices of the Su- 
preme Court reading dime novels with avidity; we 
have Macaulay devouring this kind of literature. 
Ex-President Wilson himself has confessed to this sort 
of dissipation. 

There must, then, be a sort of middle ground where 
these two extremes meet; and it is to this middle 
ground that I would direct attention. 

Dismissing those so-called "deeper" books that 
deal with history, philosophy, and science, many of 
which are read by large numbers of people, let us 
confine ourselves to fiction; and in fiction novels 
easily fall into three groups: 

1. The character novel, in which everything else 
is subordinated to the delineation of certain types of 
human beings. These types are by no means photo- 
graphic studies of real people, but are almost in- 



94 THE REQUIREMENTS OF A NOVEL 

variably the author's reactions to his own artistic 
sense of life. The novels of Henry James and 
George Meredith fall within this class. The people 
they portray are "built up" with a literary skill 
proceeding from the author's creative ability plus 
his conformity with the true principles of art, which 
hold good no matter in what field these principles 
may be expressed. For these same principles apply 
in music and painting and the drama. 

2. The story of action, in which everything else 
is subordinated to the story itself, scarcely any at- 
tempt at art being displayed in the delineation of 
character and everything being levelled down to the 
course of the story, the construction of which must, 
from beginning to end, be without any unnecessary 
impediment, so that the reader is carried on uncon- 
sciously, his attention held by a continuous sense of 
mystery, until the denouement comes. It should be 
observed that this kind of story ends with the book 
itself. The reader sighs, wishes that it might have 
been longer, is grateful that while reading it he has 
completely forgotten himself, and then proceeds to 
forget the book. A few weeks later it is extremely 
doubtful if he can tell anything about it. 

3. The great novel, in which these two forms are 
blended into a whole. This occurs so rarely as to 
make the great novels extremely scarce, and even at 
that the great novels have blemishes. Fielding's 



THE REQUIREMENTS OF A NOVEL 95 

"Tom Jones" is considered by leading critics to be 
the greatest English novel. It wanders along, from 
the modern reader's standpoint, rather aimlessly. 
Nevertheless, it is one of the world's greatest novels, 
with the story element true to life and the character 
element true to literary art. To many lovers of 
Jane Austen her novels not only depict life true to 
literary art, but contain enough of a plot to carry 
them home. They may be read and reread with 
increasing pleasure, and this in spite of Mark Twain 
and Mrs. Atherton. Yet there is no sense of excite- 
ment about them, slight incidents serving, because 
the author knows how to handle them, to create a 
dramatic interest. 

In modern life Joseph Conrad's novels rank very 
high, yet there are many readers for whom they 
contain no interest. These readers do not rise to 
their story-telling power, and are cold to their char- 
acterization and fine English. This is due to Con- 
rad's method of delineation, which he has developed 
from his own individual standpoint and which he 
has had to force gradually upon the attention of a 
growing body of readers. 

This leads me to group novels in two other ways. 
First, the novel of pure entertainment, and, second, 
the novel of moral depth. Conrad's novels are of the 
second type, are essentially allegories. They treat 
of man's struggle against the elemental forces of 



96 THE REQUIREMENTS OF A NOVEL 

nature, and unless the reader himself has developed 
a genuine sense of the difference between the moral 
and the purely material he is almost sure to miss 
Conrad entirely. To read one of Conrad's books 
purely for entertainment, just as one reads a detective 
story, is utterly to misunderstand it. When a novel- 
ist has this sense of moral values, that is, when he is 
deeply imbued with man's eternal struggle against the 
powers of darkness, the value of his art depends upon 
how he can tell his story in such a way as to keep up 
the interest without leaning too far in the other direc- 
tion. That is the main difficulty with so many of 
the so-called problem novels. They are frankly 
nothing but propaganda, and that is always bad art. 
Dickens was enraged against some of the grossest 
abuses of his age, but, being a great artist, he was 
able to tell his story and keep the attention of the 
reader while bringing home his lesson. 

But these two types may be combined. Take the 
historical novel, which has four elements, for it must 
not only tell a story and delineate character, but it 
must be sufficiently accurate to contain a correct 
idea of the age of which it treats, and in addition 
it may treat of the interplay of moral forces and bring 
home a great lesson. To those who know nothing 
of Rome and care less, Hawthorne's "Marble Faun" 
would lose a large part of its remarkable atmosphere 
and quality, although without this knowledge it would 



THE REQUIREMENTS OF A NOVEL 97 

of course carry home its charm. To American 
readers more or less familiar with the history of their 
own country "The Scarlet Letter" would, however, 
be better understood. 

Briefly, if the modern novelist is concerned only 
with the sale of his books, his problem is to avoid 
anything that taxes too much the minds of his read- 
ers, the great mass of whom desire to make no effort 
in reading a book, but prefer that the author should 
do all the work. Thus a novelist who deals with a 
strange people must — from this standpoint — recreate 
them in such a way that the reader is not made to 
feel that he is being fed up with history. That is 
why the popular novelist writes of the things and 
the people everybody knows about. When he is a 
great novelist, however, this is by far his best med- 
ium. It is probable that if Mr. Conrad could have 
written of things nearer home his audience would 
have been more responsive. In reading his stories 
the reader is always repaid for the trouble he takes; 
but in the case of Dickens, no matter if he descends 
to pathos, or how torrential may be the stream of his 
book, the reader is carried along in a kind of swirl 
of humour and description and delightful surprises, 
and doesn't care much what happens to him. Mr. De 
Morgan's books contain a wealth of observation and 
delightful writing, but there is little order about them, 
and they miss fire from a lack of the principles under- 



98 THE REQUIREMENTS OF A NOVEL 

lying all art. To those who claim that art is nothing 
but personality I would proclaim an immediate ob- 
jection, for art is not alone personality, but it must be 
founded on a technique requiring even from genius 
itself a long apprenticeship. The history of all great 
artists is the history of one long struggle to achieve 
perfection. 

The reader, therefore, in his search after the "good 
book/' must begin with a definite idea of what he 
really wants. If his sole purpose is to pass away a 
certain period of time without any other result than 
to tide himself over that period, then he is apparently 
hopeless so far as good literature is concerned. But 
as I have intimated in the beginning, even at that he 
is doing something, for as he plunges, one after an- 
other, into a number of exciting books that have only 
a story value and make no claims on his attention 
other than to keep him riveted to the spot while he is 
reading them, he is still bound, in the very nature 
of the case, to institute unconscious comparisons. 
He will discover that the "trashy" books are all of 
them built on the same formula, and, still quite 
unconsciously, he will discover that one of them is 
better written than another. At this point, in spite 
of himself, his sense of discrimination is aroused, and 
he is then on the path to better things. His next 
step will be the discovery that with books of genuine 
value the reader himself must always contribute 



THE REQUIREMENTS OF A NOVEL 99 

something. He must exercise a certain patience and 
restraint, and must come to feel that there may be 
much more in the turn of a phrase, or in the back- 
ground which, for a certain purpose, the author 
creates, than he at first suspected. In short, the 
reader must help the author by taking the time and 
thought to understand him. Snap judgments of a 
book, based on the fatal habit of skimming it over, 
are too common. 

And still beyond the literary art displayed, the 
reader's own fundamental experience with life itself 
will be put to the test. If he discovers nothing in 
Conrad or Kipling beyond the story, about the telling 
of which there may be a divergence of opinion among 
those who think they know a story as a story, then 
he has still missed much, because he himself has 
missed many of the fundamental experiences of 
life. 



JEALOUSY 

JEALOUSY is the feeling you have when some- 
one you think belongs to you is believed by 
you to be appropriated by somebody else. 

When you are jealous at first your heart begins 
to work like a one-cylinder motor car going up 
Pike's Peak. Your eyes flash fire, your face grows 
hot, and by a swift process of the mind all the mur- 
derous instincts you have anywhere in your system 
are mobilized and concentrated. After this your eyes 
become fixed and glassy, and you spend your waking 
hours in muttering to yourself and your nights in 
clutching the sheets, starting up in bed, and hissing 
able-bodied curses at the bedposts. 

To be a genuine success, jealousy should not have 
an actual object. When there is really somebody 
to be jealous about, one half of the reasons why you 
are jealous are removed, because this makes your 
jealousy about one half reasonable. When any 
jealousy begins to have a reason, the fun of possessing 
it is quite largely diminished. First, then, get an 
imaginary object to be jealous about, changing it to 
suit the taste. 

To be highly efficient and cause you the maximum 



JEALOUSY 101 

amount of trouble, your jealousy should be fairly 
well controlled, in just the same way that your 
furnace will burn up the greatest amount of coal 
when the draughts are turned on enough to make the 
consumption continuous. 

There is no cure for jealousy except marriage. 
Do not, however, marry the person you are jealous 
about. Marry somebody else. 

Then, about ten years later, when sitting in the 
club after your divorce, maybe you will see the former 
loved one passing by with a group of seven children 
and the villain who caused your jealousy wheeling 
one of the baby-carriages. Then you can go to 
sleep with calm assurance that you have gotten even 
with him in the only way possible. 



HOW TO KNOW THE WILD PSYCHOLOGISTS 

A BRIEF AND FAIRLY RELIABLE ACCOUNT OF A GREAT 
MOVEMENT 

ONE balmy morning in May, 1901, a group of 
earnest psychologists sat on the porch of a 
modest dwelling in Cambridge, Mass. Harvard 
College could be dimly seen in the distance. Amy 
Lowell, as yet unknown, unhonoured and unsonged, 
was just getting up, and, bending over a large tub of 
free verse, was wringing it out joyously. 

Caleb V. Splinters, than whom there was no 
greater psychologist, had been sitting for some time 
in gloomy silence, which, to his comrades in obscur- 
ity, was evidence that an idea was forming itself 
upon the pellucid surface of his virtuous mind. 
Suddenly he sprang to his feet, and there were those 
who fancied that a gleam of real intelligence came 
from his eyes. 

"Gentlemen," he exclaimed, "psychology must 
come to its own. Here we are, masters of thought, 
no one of us earning more than twelve hundred 
a year. Look at the fringes on these garments of 
mine. I tell you we must lift up psychology into a 
higher realm." 



THE WILD PSYCHOLOGISTS 103 

"Comrade/' asked Boreum Nureetus, another 
king of the mind, "into what realm would you lift 
it ? Speak freely. If you can put psychology on a 
financial basis, we are with you to a man." 

"Lift it into the realm of advertising," replied 
Caleb V. Splinters, a crafty smile illuminating his 
cheerful countenance. "For, unless my reflexes 
are all wrong — and I went over them with a monkey- 
wrench only this morning — it is in this realm of ad- 
vertising that we can do our big work." 

"What must we do?" asked Herr Von Bulow 
Spittendorf, a third master mind, who, having been 
imported from Berlin, was munching idly a hot dog. 
"It costs money to- advertise," he added, warily. 

"Not if we play the game right. We will get the 
advertisers to advertise us, and they won't even know 
they are doing it, because we will make it evident to 
them that only through our methods can they write 
advertising. This, gentlemen, is the psychological 
moment for putting something over on the great 
financial geniuses of the advertising world — em- 
purpled magnates, who roll about in their limousines, 
while we, fit to mingle with corporation heads, live 
on half-portions of shredded wheat." 

"Speak, master," they chorused. 

Caleb V. Splinters drew from his pocket a paper 
that, having been evolved from his inner conscious- 
ness, was yet damp with the association of axones. 



io 4 THE WILD PSYCHOLOGISTS 

"Listen, friends," he said. "Unless my static 
sense deceives me, there is a fortune in this for each 
one of us, and see if you don't think I know how to 
lure the wily advertiser from his lair." 

He read as follows: 

"The best time to rest is after a period of work. 

"Fatigue is produced by exertion. 

"The best advertising depends upon association 
of ideas. Example : If you see an elephant, you will 
know there is a baggage-car ahead. An elephant 
has a trunk. Hence baggage." 

"It is just as well," Caleb Splinters here inter- 
rupted himself, "to introduce into your copy a little 
humour. If expressed in simple language, many of 
the advertising writers understand it, and it makes 
them cheerful. 

"Complexes start from simplexes. 

"Every advertisement is conveyed to the brain 
of the prospective buyer through his retina. Make 
your appeal, therefore, to the retina, and ignore the 
rest of the prospective buyer. 

"If a man wants a thing he is more likely to buy 
it than if he doesn't want it." 

These and many more epoch-making maxims, 
now familiar to the advertising world, fell from the 
lips of Caleb V. Splinters. As he concluded, an 
awed silence fell upon the little group. 

"Wonderful!" cried Boreum Nureetus, who in his 



THE WILD PSYCHOLOGISTS 105 

younger days had once acted as a messenger in a 
Government bond issue affair and saw the limitless 
financial possibilities. "Some one of us must bend 
to the task of writing a masterpiece on the psy- 
chology of advertising, and someone else must start 
a correspondence school of applied psychology, and 
the world is before us." 

Thus the great movement began. The little band 
scattered to their then humble dwellings, and the 
world of advertising caught psychology. 

It would seem that the great truths which sprung 
— or sprang — from the master minds of this little 
band of pioneers are so familiar as scarcely to be 
worth repeating. But it would be dishonourable for 
us not to repeat them occasionally, if only to show 
where the credit lies. For instance, we have now 
learned from psychology that if you wish to sell an 
article it is not well at first to mention the price, 
because this may awaken painful memories in the 
mind of the buyer. The cortex is unpleasantly 
affected, and when you get a man's cortex going the 
wrong way you never can tell what he will do. The 
cortex is located somewhere in the upper part of 
the body, north of the stomach, and bearing about 
east-northeast from the fissure of Rolando. It 
should be gently stroked and kept in good humour 
by means of sensory impressions, which, having 
their source in the advertisement itself, rise often 



106 THE WILD PSYCHOLOGISTS 

abruptly and proceed in a horizontal direction — 
unless the buyer is reading in bed — until joined 
at their conflux by the genetic or impure reading 
matter, thus forming one of those deltas of the con- 
sciousness which ultimately separates the buyer from 
his wad. 

Another reason why these truths cannot be re- 
peated too often is that new generations of advertis- 
ing writers are constantly rising and need to be in- 
formed about what we psychologists are doing. If 
you have never tamed a subgemmal cell, taught an 
intergemmal fibril to eat out of your hand, or house- 
broken a wild neurone, where are you going to get 
off? 

We have now learned that if you wish to print an 
advertisement that any buyer can understand, you 
must print it in type large enough for him to read. 
This is known as the Caleb Splinters first law of in- 
fraction. To achieve his marvellous results Professor 
Splinters got twenty-two volunteer buyers and her- 
metically sealed them in a glass case, kindly loaned by 
the hygienic department of Yale University, so that 
he could keep them under close observation. He 
then fed them daily on segments of the advertising 
section of the popular magazines interspersed with 
bits of the Congressional Record and the Author's 
League Bulletin, making hourly observations. From 
his intensely interesting report we are able to glean 



THE WILD PSYCHOLOGISTS 107 

the following data: At the end of the first forty- 
eight hours only one and one half per cent, of the 
buyers could see at all, the rest being totally blind. 
He then restored them — at the end of another forty- 
eight hours — by substituting for the Congressional 
a few pictures of Theda Bara and some Paris posters. 

Splinters has contributed this great discovery to 
the world free of charge. 

"I have money enough of my own," he says. 
"Why profiteer?" 

His reply has caused considerable surprise, but 
would that his patriotic example might be followed 
by others, who, alas, may not be so familiar with the 
psychology of advertising as they ought to be. 



A DELICATE SUBJECT 

1 APPROACH a subject so delicate and dangerous 
that the mere thought of it makes me shiver with 
apprehension. To be brutally blunt, and not to 
keep the jaded and more or less tax-ridden reader in 
suspense, it is the great question as to what the girls 
are wearing. 

I am neither for nor against women's clothes. 
There are occasions when it is best to stand pat. 
Perhaps because of our variable climate, or possibly 
because we are slaves to habit, we all wear clothes. 
To begrudge any girl in these days the little she may 
have on seems to me ungenerous. Women have 
always worn clothes — more or less — and whether 
it is more or less seems to depend on the way they 
feel about it. 

There are many learned and otherwise important 
men who seem to feel that the girls, take them by 
and large, are not wearing so many clothes — or 
perhaps I could say enough clothes. So far as is 
known by careful observation there is no general 
feeling of complaint that the girls are spending too 
little on their clothes. Rather the contrary. But 
there seems to be a disposition to feel that in propor- 
108 



A DELICATE SUBJECT 109 

tion to the actual money spent there is not enough 
surface covered. 

But clothes are not achieved that way. They 
are bought not so much on account of their total 
acreage as because of their concentrated power to 
divert and attract. Abbreviation in clothes appears 
to be an important principle in the art of displaying 
them. As Robert Louis Stevenson once said about 
literature, the great thing is knowing what to omit. 

All women are beautiful if viewed from a proper 
distance, and as we timidly approach them many 
women grow more so. And everywhere there are 
girls — short girls and tall girls, poor girls and rich 
girls; girls with fluffy hair and girls with curls. The 
number of girls turned out in this country alone in 
one year is astounding, and would be incredible if we 
didn't actually see them around. Millions of them! 
They come from everywhere. You cannot take a 
walk in any state without meeting them. Cities 
teem with them — girls in offices, girls in homes, 
girls in factories and farms. We even see girls oc- 
casionally in kitchens. If you didn't see them every- 
where you go — nothing but freckled boys and homely 
men, nothing but fat profiteers and tired business 
nonentities — how would we feel about that? In the 
streets there would be no colour, except possibly 
an occasional red cravat, and what would be the use 
of wearing even a red cravat if there were nobody 



no A DELICATE SUBJECT 

but coarse men to admire it? And then — quite 
aside from the mere appearance of things — there are 
emotional girls, girls who don't know their own minds 
and those that do; cold and haughty girls; and girls 
with affectionate and glowing natures. 

All this being freely admitted, is it proper for us 
men, who, anyway, cannot afford to take any super- 
fluous time from the job of making enough money 
to pay for the ladies' clothes — is it proper for us 
weaklings, I say, to do anything about these clothes? 

The fact that we know nothing about a woman's 
clothes, and couldn't tell a georgette crepe de meteor 
from a pea green Nile taffeta chassis, is nothing 
against us. We don't know anything about women 
anyway. A great many of us also have gotten so 
that we don't know any too much about running 
our own business, and have to call in an efficiency 
expert or a memory shark to bolster up our minds. 
Indeed, the ordinary man of affairs will soon have to 
be fed with a spoon and a guardian appointed over 
him to get him back and forth safely from his home to 
his office. 

So that we mustn't be discouraged if we don't 
know how to tackle the problem of women's clothes, 
or don't even know whether it is best to try it or not. 

The thing to do is to appoint a committee. When 
in doubt about anything always appoint a committee. 
And we mustn't be afraid to put the women them- 



A DELICATE SUBJECT in 

selves on it. When in a large, general and, I may 
say, national manner, the responsibility is put right 
up to the women themselves, they rarely fail us. 

As soon as the committee is formed, out of it will, 
of course, come two parties — a clothes party and an 
anti-clothes party. This would start something, 
and maybe we need that. 

Lest it still be thought, however, that the girls 
themselves would not be fair, it is only necessary 
to us men to know that the project of a regular uni- 
form for women was actually started some time ago 
by one of them — and fell flat. Doubtless it didn't 
have the hidden support of enough men. I suspect, 
indeed, that men are themselves at the bottom of 
all this recklessness and irresponsibility in the wear- 
ing of clothes among women. I really suspect that 
the men like it. They may protest that they don't, 
but a distinguished expert has long ago declared that 
all men are liars anyway. 

High-heeled slippers and short skirts, topped ofF 
by woollen mosquito nets that any able-bodied mos- 
quito could crawl through with ease — there must be 
some encouragement to wear these interesting things 
from a whole lot of innocent-looking men, or else the 
girls would be wearing mother hubbards, or some 
thing equally voluminous. This whole question, 
therefore, comes back to the girls themselves; it is 
not only on their backs — if it can be said that any- 



ii2 A DELICATE SUBJECT 

thing is on their backs nowadays — but in their 
hands. We cannot do anything about it. Some 
of us have tried, and miserably failed. Up to the 
present hour of writing the bargain counter has held 
its own with the pulpit and the rostrum. 

The committee in charge of this whole matter 
should undoubtedly be composed entirely of women 
and it should be fairly representative of all classes 
and sections. There should be a nice little city 
girl who lives in a hall bedroom and has a romantic 
soul, and who wears clothes for the fun of it. There 
should be not more than one society queen, also a 
golf lady, a suburban matron, an actress, just a 
frivolous girl who has money, a woman lawyer, a 
woman author, a woman politician, and a couple of 
elderly spinsters. 

There would probably be some slight discussion, 
and possibly some hair pulling on the committee 
before they came to a final agreement. 

We men should keep out of it, and abide by 
the consequences, fatal or otherwise. The most that 
we could do would be to make a few modest recom- 
mendations. 

Personally I am in favour of some variety, and 
shameless as this may seem, I am not strong for a uni- 
form with brass buttons. But a trained nurse costume 
has its merits and breeds a proper spirit of romance. 
Also I like a little colour if it is laid on right. 



A DELICATE SUBJECT 113 

"Success in the art of being beautiful," declares 
Rebecca West, "seems always a matter of individual 
inspiration. " 

There is much truth in that observation. No 
committee can afford to overlook it. 

If all women looked the same — as most men do — 
it might be highly detrimental to a continuous 
democracy. We should then have to select our wives 
according to their weight and height and abilities. 
Love would gradually be reduced to a syllogism. 
Love is expensive and is undoubtedly the cause of 
much trouble. If it could be abolished by act of 
Congress or by having all the girls look alike we 
might be able to give a little more attention to our 
conduct. 



WANTED: A SECRETARY OF ATHLETICS 

OUR presidential campaigns have become so un- 
interesting that something ought to be done to 
lift them up into the same moral atmosphere as golf 
or Kelly pool. The vice-presidency itself, that 
glorious bulwark of democracy, isn't absorbing 
nearly so much of our energies as it ought to, having 
about the same general consistency as a shuffleboard 
championship. If our leading politicians could be 
given a rubdown and a turn-over in the swimming 
tank every day, it wouldn't matter greatly if the 
water had to be changed once or twice a week. The 
expense would be nothing in a case like this. 

There are moderately strong men all over this coun- 
try, with idealistic mud-guard shoulders that slope 
gracefully into the domestic underworld, who are 
now taking secret systems of home exercise, who 
ought to be exposed and made to do some real 
work. 

We already have a Secretary of Agriculture whose 
business it is to provide us every spring with enough 
hard seeds to keep the rain from washing out our 
driveways. Unless we have a Secretary of Athletics, 
the few of us who still have brains enough to cast a 
114 



WANTED : A SECRETARY OF ATHLETICS 1 1 5 

vote won't have strength enough left to get within a 
hundred feet of a ballot box. 

This is a serious situation. Suppose you are still — 
by some chance — at the head of the plant that you 
once owned, and want to borrow a couple of millions 
from the men who are running it, and haven't any- 
thing left but brains to do it with? It would appear 
as if there were a number of people left over from 
the war who still believe that brains are of some value 
in running a business. This only goes to show how 
hard it is to get any idea of progress into our heads. 
But a Secretary of Athletics would put us on the 
right basis. He would give the business men of 
this country, who have been blindly leaning on their 
brains to run their affairs, a chance to rise to the 
level of the men they employ. 

It will take time to do this. Before any of us can 
get so that we can work in a coal mine eight or nine 
hours a day without fatigue, we shall have to start in 
gently with parchesi, plain knitting, and parlour put- 
ting, and work up through basket ball, ping pong, and 
croquet until we can get so that we can skin the cat in 
the garage, and if need be, help the wife put on a tire. 

A great future awaits us poor old business boobs, 
with nothing but brains and experience to support 
us, if we did but know it. And by this time, strange 
as this may seem, we ought to be receiving some en- 
couragement from the government. We don't want 



n6 WANTED: A SECRETARY OF ATHLETICS 

too much. Not being used to it, it ought to come in 
small doses at first. The first Secretary of Athletics 
need not necessarily be able to do the giant swing, 
or ride an army mule around the Washington Monu- 
ment with one foot in the air. But at least he should 
be able to do the Capitol once a week and see that 
the dumbbells and Indian clubs are all in order, 
without being taken around in a wheeled chair. If, 
when we are obliged to travel on one of our railroads, 
we may be called upon at any moment to man the 
engine, or to unload a freight car filled with perishable 
goods and get them to the nearest profiteer, we ought 
to feel that the government is, in a way, behind us. 
At present, such is our hopeless condition, it is doubt- 
ful if we could get any man broadminded enough to 
be a Secretary of Athletics. 

Even supposing that he had been born originally 
in a caddie house, and had worked on a links all his 
life, and had never done anything intelligent enough 
to make it count against him as a candidate, he would 
be almost certain to be non-committal on the main 
issues. Having read the newspapers, the party 
platforms, the senatorial debates, and the movie 
announcements of coming films for the past few 
years, he would have no opinions of his own. He 
would say: 

"I believe in a league of nations, with proper 
reservations, provided that the basket ball averages 



WANTED: A SECRETARY OF ATHLETICS 117 

are kept up and our business interests are kept down 
to one per cent. American F. O. B. Detroit, and 
all the lost golf balls shall be distributed equally 
among those glorious heroes who having offered up 
their lives and what spare cash they had for their 
country, are now roaming around looking for jobs. 
And provided, further, that all other candidates 
may come out with a full, frank statement such as 
this is, irrespective of any condition of servitude in 
which at present they may be basking/' 

Always when we are in despair, however, we are 
somehow able to pull the country through and to get 
someone to act as substitute for the real thing. The 
main point is to get almost any one as Secretary of 
Athletics to begin on, and then we can gradually 
work the department up to a fairly respectable basis, 
even if Bryan or Dempsey, or Harold Bell Wright 
won't serve. 

Getting a new department started is not so difficult 
as it may seem to us who know so little about our 
government and wish we knew less. All you have 
to do is to send word to your local congressman. 
Do not meet him personally, as this might create a 
coolness between you that would conserve no worthy 
cause anyway. If you have never learned his name, 
consult the nearest drug store. Then phone, wire, 
send him a special delivery, or use any other dishon- 
ourable means to get at him that may occur to you. 



n8 WANTED: A SECRETARY OF ATHLETICS 

Tell him that you are one of his numerous con- 
stituents, and this will awaken what sympathy he 
may have left over from the last caucus. 

If everybody does this the president will be obliged 
by the mere force of public opinion to appoint a 
Secretary of Athletics. 

With a Secretary of Athletics sending us pamphlets 
on home training in every mail, we can look forward 
to our future universal business decrepitude with the 
feeling that, at any rate, we did have an opportunity 
to keep ourselves in fair physical condition. 



ON THE RECOMMENDING OF BOOKS 

DO YOU know of anything good to read? . . . 
Even should you be only an occasional 
reader of books — an intermittent dabbler in catching 
titles and literary colour schemes — even then the 
occasion arises when you will be forced to answer this 
question. But if you be the more or less apprehen- 
sive possessor of a library of your own — with your 
ears up all the time listening for the approaching 
footsteps of some shameless borrower — then, indeed, 
your responsibility is acute. What you do or don't 
know about a particular book may determine your 
future relationship to some friend who — aside from 
his or her literary idiosyncrasies — is for the present 
the best friend you have. 

Somebody is always asking someone at some time 
if he knows of a good book to read. To say the right 
thing, either about the right or wrong book, to either 
the right or wrong person, is an intellectual diversion 
of no mean proportions. 

And the attack is as likely as not to come suddenly, 
when you are off your guard. You cannot parry 
it without a sense of evasion. Besides, you may not 
119 



120 RECOMMENDING BOOKS 

want to parry it. You may have sat up in bed half 
the night before reading a tome that makes the 
celebrated ride of Prince Kamar Al-Akmar on his 
enchanted horse seem dull in comparison. Yet even 
this has its dangers, for our literary enthusiasms often 
have to be lived down in deep humiliation. 

After having been reading it the previous week 
with great exultation of spirit, I once remarked to 
a casual acquaintance that the "Confessions of St. 
Augustine" was one of the greatest books in the world ; 
an opinion which time has failed to modify. He 
solemnly jotted the title in his note-book, to my 
immediate consternation. But it was too late to 
back down. The suspicion with which he afterward 
came to regard me was not allayed by the reckless 
recommendation as "light reading" of that delight- 
ful detective thriller of Sax Rohmer's, "Dope." 
For my acquaintance I was thereafter a literary 
outcast. 

Then there is the discriminating intellectual fiend 
who prides himself on his taste, and who feels no 
doubt that he is cleverly flattering you in asking 
you the fatal question. You are never sure of what 
he likes, because the thing you have declared good 
he straightway announces is intolerable. You won- 
der why he continues to consult you, and no doubt 
have an instinctive feeling that he is only doing it to 
show you up. You find yourself adding to your 



RECOMMENDING BOOKS 121 

statement — "That is, if you feel like that kind of a 
book," thus hoping to get back at him by the subtle 
intimation that if he doesn't like it there must be 
something wrong with him. 

And the ladies! Caught in an attack of Ibsen 
fever, I stated to a charming and highly domesti- 
cated specimen who talked somewhat intelligently 
of the modern drama — if anybody does — that the 
"Doll's House" was "an epoch-maker." But she 
returned to me later with the fundamental observa- 
tion that no woman in her right mind would have 
done as Nora did. Another lady of similar proclivi- 
ties asked me if "The Moon and Sixpence" was the 
kind of a book that one "ought" to read. In a 
moment of self-admired caution I said No — with the 
qualification that in some respects it was a great book. 
She got it, and reproached me with my recommenda- 
tion, declaring that it was quite horrid. I have no 
doubt that to this day she is convinced that I am a 
morbid and thoroughly irresponsible critic. 

It may not be out of place here, if for nothing 
else than to increase our efficiency, to give a list of 
phrases to be used by timid people when recommend- 
ing books to inquiring friends: 

"It is a good book, but I am bound to say that the 
reading of it depends upon your mood." 

"You couldn't do better — that is, if your only 
object is to pass the time." 



122 RECOMMENDING BOOKS 

"Everybody is reading it. But that may not mean 
anything to you." 

"In case you don't like it, please don't blame me." 

If your friend is a chronic borrower, however, 
and you purposely wish to insult him, the following 
defensive phrases may be used as occasion warrants. 
But upon all other occasions they should be carefully 
avoided : 

"I couldn't afford to spend the time reading it. 
But it's just the book for you!" 

"It's badly written, but a good story. I'm sure 
you will like it." 

"There's nothing to it — but you may get a lot 
out of it." 

"It's a fascinating book for an idle hour — if you 
know how to skip. It ought to amuse you for a 
couple of days." 

"You certainly ought to read it; it will give you an 
entirely new point of view." 

"It will give you something new to talk about." 

I once overheard a young woman who sat back of 
me at Walter Hampden's "Hamlet" declare that 
it was evident that Polonius didn't know his part, 
he repeated himself so much. But if that had been 
said by a well-read gentleman of fifty or more, in the 
right company, it would doubtless have been re- 
ceived with smiles. The problem, therefore, seems 
to depend upon one's age, one's standing, and one's 



RECOMMENDING BOOKS 123 

company. But was it not a nice old lady at Ruskin's, 
in an endeavour to mitigate one of those dreadful 
pauses that sometimes occur even among the elect, 
who suddenly remarked that "the Bible was such a 
good book!" 



ON THE PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICE OF 
HUMOUR 

A LITTLE ASIDE TO COLLEGE BOYS 

THERE is nothing more serious than the profes- 
sion and practice of humour. Good comedy 
is rarer still. There are only a comparatively few 
nations that support even one comic paper. Both 
humour and comedy are so rare that it is extremely 
hard to define them. Few have succeeded in doing 
this. They constantly evade you. 

This is a practical article, however, and not in- 
tended to deal in abstractions. I shall get down 
to business at once. In speaking about so-called 
comic journalism I shall have to do it in my own 
way, just as it happens. 

The first thing that occurs to me is this: You 
cannot force yourself to write humour. It has got 
to be in you. How can you tell when it is in you? 
I don't know. It is a kind of playful feeling that 
steals over you. It's a feeling of detachment. You 
detach yourself even from yourself. Then, of course, 
you must acquire skill in doing it. People who have 
a genuine sense of fun and comedy may be compared 
to a man with a flying machine who has not learned 
124 



PRINCIPLES OF HUMOUR 125 

how to run it. At first he is very awkward and 
bumps around a great deal. Later on, when he is 
looping the loop, you wonder how he does it so well, 
but the chances are that, in addition to his training, 
he had a talent for it from the beginning. 

I have been reading manuscripts from would-be 
humorous writers for twenty-five years, and can 
generally tell when they have any talent, almost at 
first sight. It is the way a thing is put that counts, 
and this comes from a combination of personality 
and an unknown something, difficult to describe. 
It is a common mistake to suppose that if a thing is 
"funny" it is necessarily humorous. I send back 
a lot of things that are "funny" because they are 
common in style, or have a tinge of vulgarity about 
them. I think it is true that the best wit and humour 
among amateurs comes out of the colleges and the 
college papers. The reason for this, I take it, is 
that the boys who go to college have had the ad- 
vantage of good homes, they have acquired manners, 
and manners are immensely important. The mov- 
ing picture people tell me that the hardest thing is 
to get someone to take the part of a gentleman. 
Manner is acquired only under certain conditions, 
and humour is born of a critical instinct, plus sym- 
pathy. Perhaps "good fooling" is the expression 
that covers it best. You must be mentally at ease — 
more or less confident of yourself, yet tolerant. 



126 PRINCIPLES OF HUMOUR 

People who have a sense of humour have difficulty 
in getting on with those who have not, and the differ- 
ence is often one of environment. For example, 
a friend of mine was called up during the war by a 
man over the telephone, who wanted him to subscribe 
for a fund for the aid of superannuated Baptist min- 
isters. "Good Heavens," exclaimed my friend, 
"Why should we keep them alive?" The man 
was offended, yet my friend was only being playful 
with an idea, which would have been perfectly under- 
stood by any one in his own atmosphere. As a matter 
of fact, I believe he subscribed to the fund. 

Real humour is extremely rare. That is evident 
upon reading any humorous paper. The good editor 
knows this and does not strain to get it. He makes 
the most interesting, playful paper he can, never 
hesitating to be serious so long as he isn't dull or long, 
and then trusts to luck to get his occasional gem. To 
do this he never misses anything that comes to him. 
This may surprise some of those critics who think 
that editors read only the manuscripts of a favoured 
few and send back the rest without a glance. Per- 
sonally, I seem to be doing nothing but reading manu- 
scripts all the time. I know most of the successful 
editors, and they are all doing the same thing. I 
read mine over and over; if I am in doubt, I hand 
them to a number of people for their opinion. I 
often read my selections aloud to get the effect. 



PRINCIPLES OF HUMOUR 127 

Occasionally in the night I wake up in horror at the 
thought of some manuscript that may be better than 
I thought it was, and should have been accepted. I 
am bound to say, however, that this occurs very 
seldom, because it is so extremely difficult to get 
anything good, that I seem always to be falling back 
on things not so good. 

The most difficult thing to achieve in writing 
humour is brevity. Often I get manuscripts pages 
long written around an idea which could have been 
put into two lines. In writing humour, it is your 
vocabulary that counts. The force of a single word, 
in the right place, is potential; it cannot be over- 
estimated. The best humour is, of course, moral; 
that is, it goes below the surface. Its force lies not 
always in the laugh but in the recollection. One 
is required to have lived, to know life at first hand, 
to have reflected upon the causes of things from 
one's individual standpoint. 

You must have principles to be a humourist. 
Then from the standpoint of your principles, you 
are struck by the absurdity, by the incongruity, by 
the positive injustice of a certain thing. Being 
a gentleman, being inured to the inevitable, being 
under control, you do not lose your temper over 
this thing. You do not rant at it like a Bolshevist; 
you take it up gently and begin to poke discreet fun 
at it. There is an obligation on your part to be 



128 PRINCIPLES OF HUMOUR 

fair; that doesn't mean that you may not exaggerate, 
that you may not be even reckless, but O, it's the 
way the thing is done. You are really in sympathy 
with it. 

Perhaps, after all, that is the explanation. You 
put yourself in the place of those you are laughing at. 
This is the basis of the dialogue, or joke — those 
things you see under pictures in comic papers, and 
which — from the editor's standpoint — are so ex- 
tremely hard to get. I read hundreds of them every 
week, almost always in despair, occasionally in the 
lofty joy of having gotten something really good. 

You know Du Maurier of Punch used to write 
these things on slips of paper as they came to him, 
and put them into a teapot on one of his shelves. 
Afterward, at the weekly conferences, he would get 
them out, and their possibilities were generally 
discussed. 

Writing humour differs from other writing in this 
respect: that often the thing you think is the worst 
is the best, and vice versa. And you cannot rely 
upon the "strictly original" stories they tell. They 
are almost invariably old. You must get it out of 
yourself, with a sort of whoop, and no matter how 
bad you may think it is, don't be afraid to send it in. 
But be very particular about a few things; first, as 
to its not being vulgar or common in style; second, 
as to how the copy looks. Don't write it until you 



PRINCIPLES OF HUMOUR 129 

can't help writing it, and after you have written it 
acquire the habit of going over it to make it better. 
This may be hard at first, but in the long run it is 
the only way. It is a question of infinite pains. 
But why not ? 



EGOTISM 

EGOTISM is also known under the names of 
Vanity and Conceit. But by any other name it 
is a source of unalloyed happiness to one's self. Solo- 
mon, who, after living with seven hundred women 
who were more or less total strangers to him, who 
took his money freely and never even offered to sew 
a button on his pajamas, declared that All was 
vanity. We are not quarrelling with the result of 
Solomon's experience, which was almost as exten- 
sive as if he were a New York society man, but we 
are bound to say that we think he was too hard on 
Vanity. If it hadn't been for Vanity Solomon would 
not be known to-day. Vanity prompted him to 
build a temple and acquire a reputation for settling 
family disputes. It made him what he was, and 
when his name had become a household word he 
went back on the best friend he had ever had, show- 
ing, as usual, that he was every inch a king. He 
hounded Vanity so that she has never been the same 
since that fatal day, although for years both Egotism 
and Conceit have been trying their best to put her on 
her feet. 
Now, the difference between conceit and egotism 
130 



EGOTISM 131 

has never been explained, but in reality it is quite 
simple. Conceit is the unbiased, unprejudiced, 
pristine satisfaction with which a man contemplates 
himself. There is nothing personal about conceit. 
Neither is it critical. A conceited man regards him- 
self as a finished product of nature, something which 
the Deity, by a lucky accident, happened to get just 
right — something that couldn't be helped. The 
conceited man rarely makes any protest against 
his own perfection. He accepts it. The results 
happen to be satisfactory to everybody, including 
himself. The misfortune of others in not having 
been manufactured so good, so beautiful, so fine as 
himself, he takes no responsibility for. But then, he 
is a perfect thing, and nobody ought to complain. 
He assuredly is not responsible. The egotist, how- 
ever, goes a trifle deeper. He feels that, along with 
the Deity, he himself is entitled to some of the glory. 
The Deity, it is true, furnished the raw material, but 
he himself has improved upon it. Other men, like 
the unwise steward, have failed in their trust, but 
not he. While the Deity has been outside neglecting 
the office, engaged in other trivial matters, he him- 
self has remained inside attending strictly to business, 
improving the plant. And what a grand plant it is! 
As a promoter of real happiness, the Egotist de- 
serves the Iron Cross, the Victoria Cross, and what 
other crosses there may be with which to reward 



132 EGOTISM 

genuine merit. All criticism and advice he puts 
down. The serenity with which he ignores his own 
mistakes is equalled by no philosopher. He actu- 
ally makes a lot of other people believe in and swear 
by him, simply by his own sincere opinion of himself. 
He needs no merit. Toil with him is superfluous. 
He lives by faith alone — faith in the one person in 
whom he has the utmost confidence — himself. 



AN ACTOR ON THEIR HANDS 

THINK of it!" exclaimed Maltby. "My old 
schoolmate, Mercator Phillby, taking the leading 
part in a musical comedy and I not knowing it! We 
must go see it. I must communicate with him. How 
about Saturday matinee?" He held up the paper. 

Mrs. Maltby, although a liberal-minded and 
adaptable person, was naturally, after the manner 
of certain sedate wives, not so highly enthusiastic 
as her husband. 

"An actor!" she said. "Oh, dear! I wouldn't 
renew an old acquaintance like that. You will only 
regret it. Take my advice and don't do it. Those 
early friendships never pan out. And with actors!" 

"He was a splendid fellow!" said Maltby. "Quiet 
and sober. I wouldn't have dreamed that he had 
any talent! It's wonderful! I simply must see him, 
if only for a word." 

"Sober!" sniffed Mrs. Maltby. "Urn! Don't 
you know, my dear, those actors spend all their time, 
when they are not acting, in carousing. Why, they 
never last more than a few years. Now don't, 
please, at your time of life, get drawn into that kind 
of an atmosphere. It's dreadful to think of!" 
133 



i 3 4 AN ACTOR ON THEIR HANDS 

"Well," replied the diplomatic Maltby, "let's 
go to the play anyway. I'd rather like to see how 
Merky looks now. My stars! Notice the way they 
advertise him!" 

Mrs. Maltby, in spite of her outward protestation 
of austerity, was human. The stage possessed for 
her a secret fascination. She loved light music. And 
they went to the play. 

Maltby sent his card through the box office after 
the first act to his old schoolmate. Later on, after 
the second act, he excitedly showed the answer to 
his almost frightened but highly curious wife. It 
read: 

"Bob, old boy! Be sure and wait after the 
show! I must see you! 

Merky." 

After they had gotten home that afternoon, fresh 
from their adventure in the wings of the theatre, 
Maltby and his wife sat down and stared at each 
other across the table. 

"You did it," said Mrs. Maltby, severely. "Now 
don't blame me, no matter what happens." 

"But, my dear girl, you must admit he is a nice 
fellow, and didn't he treat us splendidly? Same old 
Merky! I simply had to ask him out here for a 
week-end. Besides, I looked at you first." 

"And of course I had to join in and ask him, too, 



AN ACTOR ON THEIR HANDS 135 

after you'd gone that far. Now the question is, 
what on earth shall we do with him?" 

There was a tragic silence. But at last the cour- 
ageous Maltby spoke, 

"My dear," he said, "let's be wicked for once. 
Merky is travelling about the country most of the 
time, so he can't be with us long enough to get us into 
bad habits. Let's be sports. We've got to enter- 
tain him! Let's resign ourselves for a couple of days 
to a high old theatrical time. I promise you " 

Mrs. Maltby's face actually turned red. 

"I suppose you know what a high old theatrical 
time means," she whispered. "I've read about those 
actors, and what they do on Saturdays and Sun- 
days. Don't you remember when we stopped at 
Long Beach last summer what shameless costumes 
the actresses wore in bathing? Why, I understand 
they are very rarely sober. I wouldn't be a bit sur- 
prised if your friend drove up to the house Saturday 
afternoon in a big motor car just full of those dread- 
ful chorus girls. What will the neighbours think?" 

Maltby's laugh was slightly hysterical as he re- 
plied : 

"Now, don't be a hypocrite. I guess Merky can't 
do us much harm in a couple of days. Besides, be 
honest! I confess I — I — well, I will rather enjoy 
having a wild time. Between you and me, the neigh- 
bours will envy us." 



136 AN ACTOR ON THEIR HANDS 

Mrs. Maltby pretended to be terribly shocked, 
but she began to be influenced by the same horrible 
fascination that had come over her husband. 

"I suppose we'll have to offer him a cocktail for 
dinner,'' she said. "We have some left." 

"A cocktail!" cried Maltby. "My dear girl, that 
will be a drop in the bucket. Now, you might as 
well do this thing up right and resign yourself. I'll 
go out at once and buy a bartender's guide so I can 
mix my own drinks. All actors, you know, mix their 
own drinks. We must order Scotch and rye and 
bitters and gin and champagne and liqueurs and two 
or three kinds of cigarettes. You know these actors 
smoke cigarettes all the time — and if I can get enough 
gamblers in the neighbourhood together, we'll have 
a poker party." 

"Where do I come in?" moaned Mrs. Maltby. 

"You simple thing, don't you know that in theat- 
rical circles women do just the same as men? You'll 
be one of us, of course." 

"But since it is so hard to get it, wine goes 
to my head, and I should simply die if I smoked a 
cigarette. This is a dreadful thing you've gotten us 
into." 

"Nonsense! You can just puff 'em. Don't in- 
hale. You hold it between your fingers like this, 
and circle it around. And when you drink, eat 
bread ! They say if you will stuff yourself with 



AN ACTOR ON THEIR HANDS 137 

bread, you can take any amount of cocktails without 
feeling them. It acts like a blotter, you know/' 

Mercator Phillby's play was going on the road, so 
he had a couple of weeks' rest. Hence he was en- 
abled to accept the Maltby's invitation for the follow- 
ing Saturday. 

On that day Maltby, before going to the station 
to meet him in the auto, took his trembling wife into 
the dining room. 

"Brace up, old girl," he whispered. "Make up 
your mind to go in for a real devilish time. You 
may be pretty sick for a couple of days after, but 
what of that? Let's see — have we got everything? 
Gin, Scotch, rye, club soda, wine, bitters, cherries, 
cigarettes, absinthe " 

"Suppose he should bring some of those dreadful 
chorus girls," moaned Mrs. Maltby. "What would 
we do? They say actors are fearfully irresponsible. 
Of course, being rarely sober, they are perhaps not 
accountable." 

She seized a piece of bread from a handy plateful 
and began to munch it. 

"We'll have to put 'em up," retorted Maltby, 
grimly. "Don't worry. You needn't let me out 
of your sight. We'll all go down to Hades together. 
Well, I'm off. Get the cracked ice ready and I'll 
be back in fifteen minutes." 

Mrs. Maltby sat there for what seemed a small 



138 AN ACTOR ON THEIR HANDS 

eternity sturdily munching bread. She heard the 
whistle of the train as through an impenetrable fog. 
There was a grinding sound outside. The door 
opened. Voices. She sprang up and almost stag- 
gered to the door. Her heart leaped within her as 
she saw that her husband's schoolmate had come 
alone and that he was walking upright, able, appar- 
ently, to support himself without grabbing the pic- 
tures on the walls. 

"Here's Merky, old boy!" almost shouted Maltby 
in an artificial voice. (Merky shook hands cordially 
with Mrs. Maltby while her husband went on.) "And 
now, old fellow, what will you have ? I know you're 
simply dying for a drink. So'm I. Got a thirst on 
me as long as an anaconda!" 

He almost dragged his friend into the dining room^ 
Mrs. Maltby meekly following. On the sideboard, 
hiding the sight of the plate of antidote bread that 
shrank in the background, was an array of bottles 
that would have done credit to the old Hoffman 
House bar in its palmiest days, while on the sewing 
table, surrounded by a regiment of glasses, was a 
salad bowl heaped full of cracked ice. 

"Now, old boy," said Maltby, his manner almost 
intoxicated by the mere suggestion of what was 
coming, "what'll you have? Don't be bashful! Re- 
member, we are all dead game sports. I was fore- 
sighted and laid in a big stock against a dry day." 



AN ACTOR ON THEIR HANDS 139 

"Fve heard about you swift suburbanites," said 
Merky, smiling, "and I was almost afraid to come 
out here. But " 

"Ha! Ha!" exclaimed Maltby. "That is a good 
joke. Shall we start on a Manhattan, Martini, or 
Bronx? I'll mix one in a jiffy. How about a mint 
julep or a high-ball? Have a cigarette." 

He passed a huge box of those deadly articles to 
his wife and his guest. 

"Name your poison," he said. 

Mr. Mercator Phillby raised his hand. He was 
really a great actor, and his gesture commanded 
an instant respect. 

"My dear friends," he said, "I can't tell you the 
pleasure it gives me to renew this old tie. But, 
Bob, we are such old friends that I'm going to be 
perfectly honest with you. I never touch anything 
to drink. It would hurt my work if I did. I never 
did care for smoking. Besides, it's very bad for the 
throat. In fact, I'm afraid I'm not much of a sport. 
I can't afford to be, but even if I could, I wouldn't 
because — well — don't let me stop you. I never like 
to hold myself up as an example, but really, let me 
take my bags up to my room, and then if I must 
take something, give me a glass of milk and lime 
water, and we'll sit on your lovely piazza and 
talk over old times. And to-morrow, if you don't 
mind, we'll have a quiet time. I'd like to hear 



i 4 o AN ACTOR ON THEIR HANDS 

a good sermon and take a ride in the afternoon, 
and— " 

When they were alone Mrs. Maltby, tearful and 
angry, grasped her collapsible husband by his arms. 
"You — you — you," she whispered hoarsely, "got 
us into this! Why, I don't believe he would even 
play golf on Sunday!" She waved toward the 
mobilized bottles. 

"What are we to do with those?" she muttered. 
"If we don't drink now, he'll think we are not natural. 
And what will he think of us anyway!" 

"I'll be hanged if I care what he thinks!" said 
Maltby. "He may be an old friend, but he's cheated 
me out of the time of my life. You actually made 
me think he might bring one of those chorus girls! 
It was you who misled me." 

Mrs. Maltby buried her face in her hands as two 
sober, methodical, and virtuous steps were heard 
coming down the stairs. 

"Here I am," she moaned, "so full of bread that 
I simply cannot eat any dinner!" 



BOOK REVIEWERS 

FOR so many generations the almost invariably 
inoffensive book reviewer has been held up 
to so much scorn that it is high time somebody 
came to his defense. I once met a book reviewer — 
by appointment — who had written such vitriolic 
things about one of my books that I felt something 
effective should be done about it, but discovered 
him to be such a gentle and well-meaning creature 
that instead I came away with a heart full of sym- 
pathy for his hapless condition. I am now quite 
positive that book reviewers as a class are wholly 
misunderstood. Their nice sense of honour prevents 
them from associating with authors whose books 
they review, their relationships being with people 
of a lower order, such as publishers and editors. 
Their only knowledge of authors is of necessity de- 
rived from the past, concerning itself with those who 
have gone beyond. And when one reads that Aristo- 
phanes was extremely vulgar, that Goethe was 
undomestic in his habits, that Shakespeare deserted 
his wife, that Samuel Johnson gorged himself, and 
that Shelley was excessibly irreligious, it is quite 
natural that book reviewers should view all authors 
141 



H2 BOOK REVIEWERS 

with distrust. The simple fact that any man writes 
a book is indeed quite likely to prejudice the book 
reviewer against him. 

Another complaint against these long-suffering 
creatures is that they do not read the books they re- 
view, and irreverent people are continually making 
jests about this alleged propensity. The fact is, of 
course, that this is not necessary. It is not the prov- 
ince of book reviewers to tell what is in a book. If 
they did this, there would be no use in reading it. 
It is only necessary to give their opinion, and to form 
a correct opinion either about a book or a person, 
it is almost fatal to know too much. We have been 
reading Shakespeare now for several hundred years, 
yet no two people agree with him. The first im- 
pression of him — that he was silver-tongued, that he 
was a good playright, and knew his business fairly 
well — is the prevailing one that now holds, and this 
in spite of all the study that has been given to him. 

In reviewing a book, the reviewer's real concern 
is to use it as a peg to hang his thoughts on, and not 
to tell what it is, or what he thinks it is. There are 
some books, which are mostly the dullest ones, that 
must be read through, such as histories, philosophies, 
and almanacs. But novels are occasionally so in- 
teresting that one cannot wait to read them through 
— it would take too much time to get to the end. 
When a novel is not so much a story as a delineation 



BOOK REVIEWERS 143 

of character it is easily possible to get enough out of it 
in a few pages to make a creditable text. When 
in addition it is a real story, the trained reviewer 
rapidly learns by experience what parts to skip. 
It would be much more useful if a book reviewer in 
each instance, instead of giving his critique of a book, 
were to record his exact experience when reading — 
or attempting to read it. If he told what pages of 
the book he read and what he skipped, and gave his 
reasons, this in itself would be informative. The 
great majority of people who read book reviews 
undoubtedly believe that they are written as a guide, 
in order to give some idea of what the book itself 
really is. This being so, the book reviewer himself 
ought to be better known. What manner of man is 
he, and what are his circumstances? Is he married 
or single ? If he is a gentleman recently engaged in 
matrimony and has an offspring, and if a book on child 
culture is brought to him for review, will he be fair 
to it? Doubtless not, as every young parent is very 
likely to scorn all advice. A woman and her daughter 
who once did my housework for me when I lived in 
the Adirondacks insisted upon giving me corned 
beef and cabbage several times a week. "It doesn't 
agree with me," I weakly protested, "and is bad for 
the health." 

"Oh, no, sir," replied the woman, "it's fine for 
the health; Lizzie here was brought up on it, and 



i 4 4 BOOK REVIEWERS 

look at her." The very most that could have been 
said for Lizzie was that she was still alive. 

That is not the most that can be said for book 
reviewers, however, as the majority of them are not 
only very much alive, but extremely conscientious, 
within their lights. But if at the time of reviewing 
a book they are suffering from dyspepsia or an in- 
come tax report, it is bound to colour their view, 
whether they realize it or not. For this reason, the 
condition of the book reviewer at the time of reading 
should be duly recorded. The matter is much more 
important than at first it seems to be. Even when 
a reviewer is using a book only as a text for general 
observations, the fact that he has been inspired to 
write about it at all gives it a certain standing 
with the great public. It is through book reviews 
that books are introduced and read. Who the book 
reviewers are and their habits of life, therefore, may 
determine the general course of our literature. Book 
reviewers should not only be segregated, but should 
be kept under constant observation, fed upon simple 
but nourishing food, and be required to pass an 
examination, after which they may be duly provided 
with a book reviewer's license. The laws of book 
reviewing should be agreed upon and become better 
known. And reviewers should be graded and licensed 
according to their standing. In grade A would come 
those reviewers who are able to read a book a day 



BOOK REVIEWERS 145 

without fatigue, and to digest it properly. They 
should be able to give the essential flavour of the 
book without telling so much about it that the reader 
will feel that it is not necessary to read it. They 
should also have themselves under such good control 
as to restrain themselves from writing anything 
clever about the book, merely for the sake of being 
clever, and without regard to the damage done to 
the author and publisher. Indeed, I should be in- 
clined to make it a law that hereafter there shall be 
no more clever book reviewers, although I am bound 
to say that clever ones are few and far between, when 
we consider the whole mass. 

I should also make a distinction between the city 
and country book reviewer, with the odds greatly 
favouring the latter. City book reviewers have too 
many other things to do. The country editor is 
the ideal book reviewer; not that he has little to do, 
but what he has he does more thoroughly. I am 
inclined to believe that all the books published should 
be turned over to country editors, who might be duly 
subsidized by the Government. The total volume 
of book reviews thus turned out would be well worth 
while. 

But if it be decreed otherwise, then all the big 
bow-wow book reviewers, who are obliged by neces- 
sity to read one or even two books a day to keep up 
with the procession, should certainly be provided 



146 . BOOK REVIEWERS 

with helpers, who could first be apprenticed to their 
masters for a term of years, before being provided 
with a license. 

In the second grade of book reviewers I would 
place all those reviewers who declare themselves to be 
critics. And assuming that their other qualifications 
were sufficient, I would make it an inducement for 
them to work up into the first grade their willingness 
at any time to abandon the idea that they are critics, 
but only human beings with ordinary feelings and 
opinions. Well, why not ? 



PALS 

HOW does it happen that people are always 
talking about love?" she said. 

"How can they help it," I replied, "with you 
around? You naturally suggest the idea. I am 
beginning to feel that way myself." 

"And going back on your word!" 

The arrangement between us had been a simple 
but rather unusual one. She was a very pretty 
girl. She was a very popular girl. Two weeks be- 
fore, when I had met her first, we had chanced to 
have a serious conversation. She did not under- 
stand why it was that two people — of opposite sex — 
could not be friendly with each other without danger. 
I had gently tried to explain it to her, but she still 
disagreed with me. It developed during the course 
of the conversation that we were both going to the 
same place. And she had extracted a solemn agree- 
ment from me that during my stay I would treat 
her just as if she were a good fellow. 

"You forget," I replied, "that you referred to the 
subject first. Evidently something brought it up 
in your mind." 

As I spoke she raised her head, and looking off in 
147 



148 PALS 

the distance I saw a tall young fellow with a bag of 
golf clubs. 

"And so that's it," I ventured. 

She did not blush. Instead she looked at me 
calmly. 

"Yes, that's it," she said. "You see, I made the 
same agreement with him that I did with you." 

"And he went back on it? No! I'll bet you 
mentioned the matter first to him, just as you did to 
me." 

"I have no recollection of it," she said, with what 
I thought was a touch of embarrassment. 

The truth was that there were four of us, and 
that she had made the agreement with each one, as 
distinct from the rest; and it chanced that we had 
all found it out. 

So a week had passed by, in which four young men, 
with only one remarkably pretty girl among them, 
had allowed no word of love to pass their lips. I 
suspected, as I looked at her, that she was the guilty 
party. I suspected that she was getting a trifle 
tired of that agreement. And why not? Hadn't 
she been living on admiration? She thought she 
didn't like it. But it was the breath of life to her. 

The next evening we four fellows compared notes. 
We met every evening to do this and to renew our 
vow that we would hold out. 



PALS 149 

Panton was the first to speak. 

"I have news," he said, "stirring news. She 
started the subject herself. She said she couldn't 
understand why people were always wanting to talk 
about love." 

"Here, too!" I exclaimed. 

"Same here!" cried Trayne. 

"Right here!" said Brumway. Then he spoke 
solemnly. 

"Look here, boys," he said, "I don't see what we 
are really gaining by this ridiculous agreement. We 
are, in my opinion, losing a lot of valuable time. 
Here's a very pretty girl whose society might be 
used to good advantage by someone. There's a lot 
of energy going to waste. Of course we can't all 
have her; but why not one of us ? The rest certainly 
won't be any worse off than they are now." 

"Evidently," said I, "you have no idea of the 
principle we are trying to establish; you assume that 
happiness in this world is the only thing worth 
striving for. My dear boy, you are no superman! 
Remember, there is a high moral lesson somewhere." 

"Well," exclaimed Trayne, "just what is it? We 
might as well have the thing defined again, to help 
our resolution." 

"Perfectly simple," replied Panton. "Here's a 
pretty girl who has always been used to being ad- 
mired. She's more or less dependent upon it. She 



ISO PALS 

has the idea that all young men think about is making 
love. Now we — representing the sex as we do — are 
going to convince her to the contrary — we are con- 
vincing her to the contrary. Have you no pride of 
sex? Of course it's worth while." 

"Certainly it's worth while!" I shouted. "We 
must keep it up! No traitors in this camp!" 

At this moment the bell-boy came in. He held in 
his hand a tray and a letter. The tray contained 
four packages. The letter was addressed to "The 
Quartette." 

I turned pale. But what was the use? 

"Open it and read it," whispered Brumway, 
hoarsely. After all, he was the only honest man 
among us. 

The letter read as follows: 

Gentlemen: 

I return herewith the four engagement rings — one from each 
of you — which you were good enough to bestow upon me yester- 
day in proof of the fact that no man ever goes back on his word. 

Thanking you for your kind intentions, and begging leave to 
inform you that I am engaged already to a nice young man from 
the city, who will be here on the next train, I remain 

Mabel . 



A LETTER OF PROTEST 

To the Powers That Be, 

Sunrise Avenue, Corner of Milky Way. 

GENTLEMEN: We are in receipt of a six-and- 
one-half-pound infant forwarded to us from 
your establishment, and beg to report that same has 
arrived in good condition. We regret to state, how- 
ever, that he came without any baggage, and in such 
a helpless condition that we shall be compelled to fur- 
nish him with board and lodging and necessary 
covering for a number of years to come. 

He appears to have a very uneven disposition 
and has acquired the unfortunate habit of attracting 
to our home certain relatives who, before his arrival, 
made our life exceedingly pleasant by their absence. 

He cries for food continually, and as food, at the 
present time, is very high, we can look ahead and 
see that he is going to be a source of continuous 
expense to us. His one merit appears to be that he 
is not able to talk. He manages, however, to coun- 
teract this by other sounds which are not wholly 
agreeable, especially from one to three o'clock in 
the morning, when we have arrived home from some 
151 



1 52 A LETTER OF PROTEST 

pleasant evening gathering and need the necessary 
rest in order to recuperate our energies for the follow- 
ing day. 

He insists on having his meals brought to him at 
all hours of the day and night by an outwardly 
pleasant but inwardly officious person who has prac- 
tically taken charge of the whole household. 

At present this consignment has developed no 
powers of locomotion, and has to be taken out in the 
fresh air every day, covered with expensive rugs im- 
ported from distant countries. 

When he first came, he was somewhat a novelty 
of conversation among the female members of the 
household, and afforded them an opportunity to stop 
talking about their games of golf, their church work, 
and other subjects upon which they have been dilat- 
ing for several years. We regret to say, however, 
that the novelty has now worn off. 

His looks and general appearance are a matter 
of continual dispute, particularly among the male 
members, who are almost unanimous in agreeing that 
he is not prepossessing. He is declared to bear a 
startling resemblance to certain of these male mem- 
bers, who, being of strong courage, bear the news with 
resignation and with a show of outward complacency. 

While we feel a certain obligation to keep him on 
hand, in view of all the circumstances, we are telling 
you frankly our opinion in the hope that when you 



A LETTER OF PROTEST 153 

forward another consignment you will bear these 
facts in mind, and see if you cannot do better by us 
next time. 

It is, of course, always possible that we may be 
happily disappointed, and that this particular con- 
signment may turn out better in the future than the 
present indications would warrant, but our personal 
observation and experience, extending over quite 
a long period, are not provocative of much hope 
in this direction. 

Yours very truly, 

The Family. 



THE GREAT BINGTOP MYSTERY 

THRILLING DETECTIVE STORY, IN WHICH OUR MODERN 
METHODS ARE REVEALED 

MR. BUNCUM POTTS, the world-famous de- 
tective, sat in his office one morning at nine 
o'clock, nonchalantly, as was his habit, tapping his 
pencil on his pink blotter, when the bell rang, and 
there was ushered in a short, stout man, very much 
out of breath. 

"I have a very remarkable case to report to you," 
said the short, stout man. "Last night I was 
robbed." 

Mr. Buncum Potts reached for a card. 

"Wait a moment," he said, calmly. "Be kind 
enough to answer my questions in the regular order. 
Do not volunteer information. It upsets our system. 
Name?" 

"Mr. Abercrombie Bingtop." 

"Address?" 

"No. 40, Spring Road." 

"Are you a married man?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"Live with your wife?" 
154 



THE GREAT BINGTOP MYSTERY 155 

"Yes, sir." 

"Any other occupants of the house ?" 

"One servant." 

"No children?" 

"No, sir." 

Mr. Buncum Potts touched a tiny bell, and handed 
a memorandum he had made to a bright-looking 
young man who entered, and who took it without a 
word and disappeared. 

"Now, sir," said Mr. Buncum Potts, "you may 
tell the story of the robbery, making it as brief as 
possible." 

"Last night I came home about twelve o'clock, 
went upstairs to my room, where I carefully removed 
my clothes and tumbled " 

"Excuse me; you said tumbled; that is what you 
mean, I take it?" 

'Yes, sir; tumbled into bed. Before doing so I 
had carefully placed my trousers, which contained, 
among other things, a hundred dollar bill, over the 
top of a chair." 

"You are positive the hundred dollar bill was in 
your trousers?" 

" Positive. I took it out and looked at it, to make 
sure of it, and then, placing it in my pocketbook, 
in the back pocket, I put the trousers over the chair 
and, as I said, tumbled into bed. I slept very 
soundly. This morning at seven o'clock I awoke, 



1 56 THE GREAT BINGTOP MYSTERY 

and, reaching over for the trousers, discovered that 
the hundred dollar bill was gone." 

" Did you examine all the fastenings of the house ? " 

"Yes, sir; everything was secure; nobody had en- 
tered during the night." 

"How many people were in the house at the time 
the robbery took place?" 

"Two — my wife and the cook." 

"Where do these two people sleep?" 

"The cook sleeps upstairs on the top floor. My 
wife sleeps in the next room." 

"Is there a door between your room and your 
wife's?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"Did you notice, when you removed your trousers, 
whether this door was open or not ? " 

"It was open, but I shut it." 

"Softly?" 

"Very softly." 

"And this morning, when you discovered your loss, 
was this door open?" 

"Open." 

"Ah! Have you ever been robbed before, Mr. 
Bingtop?" 

"Occasionally I have missed small amounts. But 
I have never carried a hundred dollar bill about with 
me before." 

"Pardon me, Mr. Bingtop, if I ask you a rather 



THE GREAT BINGTOP MYSTERY 157 

personal question. This, of course, is strictly con- 
fidential, and I assure you I should not ask it unless 
it was absolutely necessary. Have you any reason 
to suspect that your wife is not strictly honest?" 

"Well, I have sometimes thought " 

"That will do, Mr. Bingtop. I have no desire to 
pursue a painful subject further than our system 
requires. I shall have a report " 

Mr. Buncum Potts consulted his watch. 

" — in fifty minutes. Meanwhile, have a cigar, 
and here's the morning paper." 

Turning to his desk, the great detective became 
speedily engrossed in some of his knotty problems. 
Mr. Bingtop, confident in his powers, serenely read 
the paper. 

In exactly fifty minutes there was a knock at the 
door. 

"Come in," said Mr. Buncum Potts. 

The bright-looking young man entered. He was 
followed by a tall, thin, rather handsome woman, who 
wore a new hat. Mr. Potts arose and bowed. 

"Mrs. Bingtop?" 

"Yes, sir." The bright young man had made 
an almost imperceptible sign to his employer, who 
turned to Mr. Bingtop. 

"This lady has confessed that she committed the 
crime. She was arrested in one of our largest mil- 
liner's establishments." 



158 THE GREAT BINGTOP MYSTERY 

Mrs. Bingtop turned to Mr. Buncum Potts. Her 
eyes were filled with tears. 

"How can I thank you enough," she said, "for 
what you have done for my husband? Without 
your help he would have worried himself sick over 
this mystery. Besides, I have spent all the money." 

"Don't mention it," replied the great detective, 
modestly. 

As for Mr. Bingtop, he was too much overcome 
to express himself. All he could do after paying 
his bill, which amounted to one hundred dollars, was 
to keep repeating to his wife, as he escorted her down- 
stairs : 

"Marvellous man! Marvellous man!" 



GOLF AND LITERATURE 

ONE of England's most distinguished orators 
used to declare that he always made it a point 
to read an essay by Matthew Arnold before making 
a speech. The reading of Macaulay has been the 
mainstay of some writers, the creative mood being 
thereby invoked. 

Psychology has proved beyond reasonable doubt 
this power of suggestion. It remains only to combine 
golf with literature to produce that perfect union 
of the physical and mental by which the highest 
human harmony may be attained. Golf pursued 
by itself becomes a passion which at last leaves its 
victim quite hopeless from any companionable stand- 
point. He looks at the world with eyes made of 
golf balls. His intellect is gradually narrowed down 
to the circumference of a tee. Whatever sense of 
nature or beauty he may have had in the beginning 
becomes atrophied. Having eyes, he sees naught but 
a rim around a hole. He is impossible. 

Exclusive immersion in literature produces re- 
sults quite difFerent from this, but not less harrowing. 
The poor victim, led away by serried words and se- 
ductive phrases, comes in time to the belief that he is 
iS9 



160 GOLF AND LITERATURE 

intelligent. Like a horse on an exclusive oat diet, 
he feels his superiority. 

"There is more ado. to interpret interpretations 
than to interpret things," says Montaigne, and thus 
the victim of literature leads a life of illusion. The 
scholar's lack of common sense is proverbial. The 
golfer's narrowness of intellect is painful. 

Golf, however, though it be narrow, is real life, a 
fractional grasp of concrete facts. Literature at best 
is a show of shadows. They offset each other per- 
fectly. Golf furnishes you with the physical basis 
for good mental digestion. Literature consoles you 
for golf. 

The writer hath indubitable proof that the persist- 
ent reading of "Paradise Lost" will lengthen one's 
drive from twenty-five to thirty yards. The maj- 
esty of Milton's rhythm has its sublime effect. Un- 
consciously you get the free swing. 

If you are off in your game, try an essay of Lamb's 
beforehand. You will discover, to your surprise, 
that there may be a humorous pleasure in topping a 
ball. 

The book of Job and the Lamentations of Jeremiah 
will both be found splendid neutralizers by some 
players. When you play golf so badly that your 
friends look off in the distance and smile faintly 
as you bring up the subject, and when the number 
of balls you lose makes you an object of pathetic 



GOLF AND LITERATURE 161 

popularity with the caddies — who steal over the 
ground afterward and gather the missing up at their 
leisure — then Job's ash-heap reveals itself in its 
true light. When, for example, you have been 
slicing and topping your ball all day, when you have 
dug up the earth, when your principal specialty 
along the whole course has been to get into bunker 
after bunker and every sandpit there is, is it not real 
consolation to go back hundreds of years and read in 
the words of a great authority, none other than 
Bildad, the Shuhite?: 

For he is cast into a net by his own feet, and he walketh 
upon a snare. . . . The snare is laid for him in the ground 
and a trap for him in the way. . . . His confidence shall be 
rooted out of his tabernacle. 



AN AFTERNOON AT THE CURRENT EVENTS 
CLUB 

AND THE LADIES SAY! "WELL, WHY NOT?" 

THE Current Events Club is a modern institu- 
tion that exists for the purpose of injecting the 
news of the day into the minds of a large body of 
ladies assembled for that purpose. No man is allowed 
to be present during these esoteric proceedings. The 
only chance he would have getting in would be to dis- 
guise himself as a lady. This is highly expensive. 
It would involve an investment so large as not to 
be dwelt upon without a convulsive shudder. He 
would have to be underwritten by a pool of pluto- 
crats. He would have to wear a hat with ostrich 
plumes and a blue velvet chassis. He would have 
to adorn his extremities with female shoes, and hide 
his embarrassment in a three-piece suit so perishable 
that no Trust Company would dare to place a mort- 
gage upon it. His fur piece and diamond cluster 
alone would make strong financiers weep, and there 
would also be interior decorations that would make 
even the bank roll of a master mechanic look like 
thirty centimes. It is possible, however, by com- 
162 



THE CURRENT EVENTS CLUB 163 

paring the testimony of a number of witnesses, and 
finding out where they disagree, to get a fair idea 
of what goes on. 

"I was so charmed about the Balkans," said a 
large pink lady with a sealskin body, afterward. 
"Of course, I knew there were Balkans, but I had no 
idea they were so absorbing. Think of their bringing 
on the war! Oh, yes, they did! She wouldn't have 
said so if she hadn't known — she's perfectly reliable. 
And do you know, my dear, she has actually been 
there. She was too modest to mention it in the 
lecture, of course, but it's all in the printed announce- 
ment. You must read it through — so illuminating. 
I devoured it, until I was interrupted by my hair- 
dresser — yes, she's really fine — keeps my Marcel 
perfect — and wasn't it wonderful what she said about 
Gladstone? He was a great English statesman, 
you know, and such a delightfully rugged man — so 
sincere and moral. He was frightfully anxious about 
them years ago — I mean about the Balkans — quite 
before I was born. I had no idea he had so much 
feeling — and for an Englishman, too. But I just 
adore Englishmen, don't you? even if they are awfully 
distant at times — although I do think the Prince is an 
exception — perfectly charming boy. Have you met 
him? Oh, you should have. I quite enjoyed having 
an informal chat with him. Such simple manners! 
I said to him, 'Think of your being King some day!' 



i6 4 THE CURRENT EVENTS CLUB 

It really embarrassed him, you know — I mean the 
thought of it. Such a dear, modest boy!" 

She made many more profound historical observa- 
tions, but I must tear myself away from her at pres- 
ent, and give my impression of the affair itself. 

Current Events Clubs exist in many places, but 
only in the Metropolis do they reach that intellectual 
perfection so necessary to maintain our modern 
standards of culture. 

The Club meets on certain afternoons in the par- 
lour of a Gotham hotel, in other parts of which the 
food, carefully guarded by very plain clothes men, 
is dealt out at intervals to moneyed strangers who 
have come to New York to be relieved of their valu- 
ables and moral natures. The Club is presided 
over by an educated lady who began her career in a 
correspondence school of short-story writing, but 
abandoned it to take up this larger intellectual 
irresponsibility. 

She prepared herself for her duties by reading 
through one whole volume of the Congressional 
Record, and the fact that she survived commands 
the respect of all who know her. Even now, however, 
she cannot refer to this tragic period of her life with- 
out tears. She has also travelled abroad with either 
a Mr. or a Dr. Cook, and has passed a winter in 
Washington, where she personally met a senator, a 
secretary of state, and a Chinese ambassador. She 



THE CURRENT EVENTS CLUB 165 

is therefore educated in the loftiest and most Ches- 
terfieldian sense. 

As she appears on the improvised platform, carry- 
ing a sweet smile and a bamboo wand to point out 
the world spots on the maps behind, there is a homo- 
geneous flutter of ostriches and aigrettes and a 
subdued murmur of applause, accompanied by a 
general adjustment of furs and lorgnettes. Then 
the metaphorical ball is passed to the field, the play- 
ers take their places in the boxes, and the world 
series begins. 

Her programme is varied and complete. It 
starts with an account of the leading world events 
"since we last met" and occasions many sighs of 
relief to think that nothing has happened to prevent 
her coming: for if she had caught cold or been run 
over on the Avenue, these ladies assembled before 
her might have been left in total darkness all the 
rest of their lives. They would still go on being 
alive, would have gone on shopping expeditions and 
to afternoon teas and bridge parties and box lunch- 
eons, but their knowledge of what is going on in 
the world would have stopped short at the end of the 
last meeting — on the day the miners walked out, or 
when Senator Bounder put on a red cravat to ad- 
dress the country on the momentous issues of the day. 

They would still have gone on glancing over the 
paper left on the breakfast table by a careless hus- 



166 THE CURRENT EVENTS CLUB 

band, but who would be there to disentangle the 
Balkans, or to tell on just what spot on the map 
Sefior Vicente Blasco Ibafiez was egging on his Four 
Horsemen of the Apocalypse? 

She begins with a story that is tied up with laven- 
der ribbons and trimmed with lace, like a box of 
candy, and everybody is put in good humour. World 
events must always be served up in this manner, 
otherwise some of the ladies might faint with indigna- 
tion or horror, and have to be carried off in an am- 
bulance at great expense. 

It appears that several things have happened since 
the last meeting. Mr. Gompers hasn't been feeling 
well. Mr. Lloyd George has made another state- 
ment. Wall Street has been completely upset [one 
lady sniffs a bottle and whispers, "My husband lost 
thirty thousand. Fancy!"]. Then there has been a 
lamentable shortage of sugar, but this will be re- 
lieved [a general relaxing]. There have been a 
couple of industrial conferences at which several 
prominent people spoke, and Massachusetts has gone 
American. The League, of which mention was made 
at the last meeting, is still bearing up and able to 
take slight nourishment. Of course, one must be 
fair to the senators. They are really nice men. And 
one must be fair to the miners. They are also fairly 
nice men, although soiled in places. An Italian 
professor has attacked Newton's theory of gravita- 



THE CURRENT EVENTS CLUB 167 

tion ["I had forgotten that he invented it," whispers 
one lady. "But now I recall reading about it in 
school"]. Paris, poor dear, is shivering with cold. 
Ohio has put on rubbers (or should it be overshoes?). 
Enver Pasha has been having a dreadful time with 
the Trans-Caspians. 

Several Bolsheviks have been discovered hiding 
in the immediate vicinity. Ireland is still trying 
to annex the British Empire, including Lord North- 
cliffe, with the help of Bernard Shaw. H. G. Wells 
has written a history of the world, first run in serial 
form as a thriller, and afterward stepped on by 
Charlie Chaplin. Arnold Bennett is unnaturally 
quiet, and Booth Tarkington hasn't written a play 
for three weeks. 

An example of the latest and worst free verse is 
then recited as a grand finale, and the ladies pull 
themselves together, resume their talk where it was 
cut off" by the lecturer, and gradually disperse to 
late-afternoon functions, while the lecturer herself 
goes to her masseur, and the world crisis wraps the 
bedraggled drapery of its couch about it and lies 
down to unpleasant dreams, until the next meeting 
is called. 

Afterward the affair is discussed by a short horn- 
glass brunette, in a four-hundred-dollar sport suit 
and a silver fox fur tippet, and a tall, pearl-studded 
blonde with Russian sable fenders. 



168 THE CURRENT EVENTS CLUB 

"I suppose it's awful of me, but I can't help feel- 
ing sorry for those poor miners. Of course, one must 
be fair, but I'm sure it is dreadfully unpleasant and 
smelly to work in a mine. She said " 

"Now, Dorothy, you simply must not lose your 
perspective. I think our statesmen have been 
wonderful all through. Such poise! We certainly 
must have coal, you know. Just think of all the 
people who can't afford to go to Palm Beach." 

As for the pink lady with the sealskin body, she 
goes home to her husband, whom she sees occasionally 
(this being between seasons), bursting with news. 

"My dear," she says, "I know everything that's 
going on, and our conversation might be so interest- 
ing if you would only talk." 

He passes his hand wearily across his corrugated 
brow. 

"About what?" 

"Why, about the absorbing events that are happen- 
ing. Do you fully realize that we are now confronted 
by a world crisis?" 

He gazes at her wildly, while the butler passes 
the salted almonds. 

"Good heavens!" he mutters, "don't bring that 
up. I'm trying to forget about it." 



THE MAN WHO CAME BACK 

HENRY BILKINS, when he returned, had been 
dead exactly ten years. Under the new order, 
he was the first man to return. We don't know how 
many others came back later. The facts about one 
individual are all that should be crowded into a story 
like this. 

In the same suit he had worn at his funeral 
ten years before — slightly mustier from having, 
during this period, reposed in the family vault — 
Henry Bilkins stood on the corner of F Street and 
Sunset Avenue. This was where his funeral had 
passed. 

It was an ornate and magnificent funeral, as those 
functions go, but it had been sincere and widespread 
with a genuine grief that had slipped its dam and 
overflowed into the surrounding country. For 
Henry Bilkins was a man beloved. He had worked 
hard, he had raised a family, he had left a fortune 
and a successful business, and cut off as he had been, 
just beyond his prime, those who had become de- 
pendent upon his advice, his judgment, his way of 
shouldering their responsibilities, those who loved 
169 



i 7 o THE MAN WHO CAME BACK 

him for his kindliness, his sympathies, his compan- 
ionship — all these were prostrated by the shock of 
his sudden departure. 

That was why Henry Bilkins came back, when, 
under the new method, first discovered by the dis- 
tinguished president of a Society of Psychical Re- 
search he found that he could come back. It was a 
sense of duty to others. There was no reason to 
suppose that he wasn't having a good time where he 
was — for he had been a model man — but, knowing 
how he had been missed, how badly they all felt about 
it, how dependent they were upon him, and all that, 
Henry Bilkins felt that he must go where duty called. 
So here he was. 

He walked down the street to his office of the old 
sign, that had now been changed to a new one, with 
his son's name. He entered the lower door. He 
walked up the stairs. He entered the office. There 
had been changes, but he caught the word "Private," 
and entered that door before he could be stopped. 
He faced his eldest son. 

"Arthur!" 

"Father!" 

There was for a moment considerable excitement. 
Not the sort which females invariably exhibit, but 
a real man-to-man excitement, brought out by such 
an unprecedented shock. Then they sat down calmly 
and talked it over. 



THE MAN WHO CAME BACK 171 

"I haven't a cent," said Henry Bilkins. "We 
never used it where I was." 

Arthur was now married, and the business — well, 
business wasn't quite so good as it had been, and 
there were certain babies — still, his was a generous, 
a filial nature. 

"Of course," he replied, opening the cash drawer. 
"Here, father, is a hundred dollars. That will last 
you until " 

Henry Bilkins took the bills and folded them up 
carefully. Certain things were beginning to reveal 
themselves. 

"I left you most of my money, Arthur." 

Then, the truth coming to him, he got up smiling 
and said: 

"Don't let me disturb you, my boy. I'm going 
around now to renew some of the old ties. By the 
way, how's your mother?" 

Arthur's face changed. 

"Mother's all right, sir," he said, with something 
of the old-time deference. "Perhaps you'd better 
not see her until — well, I'll go with you. We'll 
make an appointment. I want to think it over." 

Henry Bilkins began the rounds of his old friends. 
First he called on Gadsby. Gadsby and he had 
played golf once a week for the last five years of 
Bilkins' life. There were the usual startling pre- 
liminaries. 



172 THE MAN WHO CAME BACK 

"I'd dearly love to play with you this afternoon," 
said Gadsby, "but — well, I have an engagement with 
Perkins. To-morrow? One with Hopkins. Per- 
haps some day next week." 

Bilkins left Gadsby and called on Whittler and 
Dimpleton, and the president of his old bank, who 
was still alive, and he even went so far as to hire 
an auto and make a journey to the suburbs to visit 
his old secretary, who had married the assistant 
bookkeeper the year after his death, and had now a 
little brood of her own. 

At five o'clock in the afternoon he went back to 
his son's office. Arthur was waiting for him — 
looking slightly paler and more anxious even than 
in the morning. They sat down silently. 

"Arthur," said Henry Bilkins, at last, "I have 
made a singular discovery. Nobody wants me back. 
My old friends have all forgotten me, and while they 
expressed a certain degree of pleasure in seeing me, 
it was mostly perfunctory. I couldn't take up the 
threads again. I left you my money. It would be 
awkward, even if it were practicable, to give it back 
to me. The ties by which I was united to you were 
broken, and have all healed or been united to other 
interests. Now, Arthur, I'm going back — nay, don't 
protest. We might as well be honest. Besides, 
it's perfectly natural that I should be forgotten. 



THE MAN WHO CAME BACK 173 

Yes, Arthur, I'm going to return. But there's just 
one thing, Arthur, before I go — just one thing. I 
know, of course, your mother's married. I saw it in 
your face. But I'd like to see her — to press her hand 
— to say good-day to her, just for old time's sake. 
Can you arrange this for me, my boy — over the 
phone?" 

Henry Bilkins' voice actually shook. His son 
got up. 

"Father," he said, "I, too, have been thinking 
this over. You are right. It isn't because I'm 
hard-hearted — but this is a practical world. And 
so, father, I'm ready to agree with you. Yes, you'd 
better go back. But it wouldn't be advisable for 
you to see mother." 

"Why not? Isn't she happily married?" 

"Oh, yes. But, you see, father, mother has 
married a man — well, he's a nice man, but he needs 
regulating. And the only way she can succeed in 
regulating him is to hold you up to him as a model. 
She keeps your picture on the wall as a constant 
example. We all help her more or less. Your 
memory, your virtues, keep him toeing the mark. 
He has to live up to you. Now, father, you see 
what would happen if " 

Henry Bilkins got up. He held out his hand. 

"I understand," he muttered, "those new cars 
that pass here go to the cemetery, don't they? Well, 



i 7 4 THE MAN WHO CAME BACK 

good-bye, Arthur, I'm glad to have seen you even for 
this short time. I'm going back, don't worry." He 
was gone. 

The door closed behind him. There was a mo- 
ment's pause. 

Then Arthur got up and opened it. 

"Father," he called. 

The old gentleman turned on the landing. 

"Excuse me, father," said Arthur, "but you might 
let me have what's left of that hundred — if you 
don't mind, father." 



INCOGNITO 

THEY came into the room quietly — Modesty 
and Art — and sat down patiently together. 
You would scarcely have known they were there. 
Somehow they never make any noise, those two. 
And the great man was writing. 

By and by the great man chanced to look up from 
his typewriter and saw them both sitting there. 
And he was quite naturally surprised. Wouldn't 
you be surprised if you were a great man and Modesty 
and Art should come into your room — and you didn't 
know who they were ? 

But the great man was cautious. He was ac- 
customed to homage. These strangers might have 
come to pay that. So he thought it was best to take 
it for granted that there was the best of reasons why 
they should be there. ' Besides, they looked rather 
pleasant and inoffensive. There was nothing about 
them to alarm anybody. 

"Good afternoon," said the great man, politely. 
On the table there were some sketches he had drawn 
for the great book he was writing, a masterpiece of 
literature, a book that teemed with human interest. 
"What can I do for you?" said the great man, 
*7$ 



176 INCOGNITO 

His visitors were sitting rather close together, their 
hands clasped. Art spoke. 

"This is America, is it not, great sir?" asked Art. 

"Yes." 

"You must pardon me for asking," said Art, "but 
we are comparative strangers to this land. We came 
originally from Greece, but we lived, you know, in 
Italy and France until — until the war drove us out. 
We had to go somewhere, and so we came here." 

At this Modesty spoke, very quietly, very de- 
murely, her wan cheeks flushing. i 

"Yes, sir," she continued, "we belong to each 
other, he and I, and we never have been parted; 
but here, sir, the crowds confuse us, and the atmos- 
phere is unclear, and, of course, we shall go back 
some day; but meanwhile, could you let us possibly 
stay with you? We'll promise not to interrupt you 
or cause you any thought if we may but have a bite 
to eat and some straw upon which to sleep. They 
told us at the corner that you were among the great- 
est of these people, and so we " 

The great American author — for by this time the 
indulgent and discerning reader will no doubt have 
recognized him — arose with a kindly smile and mo- 
tioned the two strangers to the door. He pointed 
into the distance. 

"My friends," he said, "your story interests me 
greatly, and if I were not so busy I should love to 



INCOGNITO 177 

become better acquainted with you both. But my 
house is full and the demands upon me are exacting. 
Do you see that large sign down there? Well, that 
is the headquarters of the Foreign Relief Committee. 
You go there and they will take care of you and see 
that you both get back safe and sound. Just tell them 
my name and it will be all right. Don't mention it. 
Good afternoon." 

Then he went back to his typewriter, his brow 
furrowed with care, and, looking up at the clock as 
he prepared to strike the first key, he said : 

"These interruptions ! At least fifty dollars' worth 
of time wasted!" 



MANNERS 

NO NATIONAL commission has yet been ap- 
pointed to regulate manners. Yet, how we 
are to act and what we are to do are never absent 
from our calculations. 

Nothing is so important to us as our appearance 
before others. No man would dare to admit to him- 
self that he is not a gentleman; no woman, that she 
is not a lady. This ruling idea, older than man (for 
vanity is discernible in animals) is the basis of our ex- 
travagance. In a land where commercial success is su- 
preme above all other successes, there may be a kind 
of distinction in a man's being crooked, provided, 
as the slangists put it, he has "got away with it." 

But such a man who, according to simple Christian 
principles, must sizzle in hell when he dies and is 
quite indifferent to such a fate, would burn up with 
mortification if caught in some obvious social faux 
pas. What we are all trying hardest to do is to make 
it appear that we are to the manner born. Therefore 
we are ready to spend money which ought to be con- 
served, or, indeed, to make any sacrifice to keep 
up appearances. The memory of a snub is more 
enduring than debt, more rankling than ingratitude. 
Much as we abhor the vices and vulgarity of Sir 
178 



MANNERS 179 

Pitt Crawley, his picture is unconsciously softened 
in our eyes by the unalterable fact that he was a noble 
man; indeed, if it were not for that fact Thackeray's 
high art would have had no excuse in painting him. 

Our ambitions lie all in one direction — to be the 
equal and superior to our neighbour in social matters; 
to live in a better house; to drive in a more luxurious 
equipage; to set above him the standard of manners. 
Where there is to-day so much "efficiency/' is it not 
singular that no expert has risen who is prepared in a 
course, say, of ten lessons, to equip us with that inde- 
finable something which will enable us to acquire 
in our particular community the reputation for being 
"the real thing?" 

The truth is, that nobody can teach this sort of 
thing. It is not to be learned. What, for example, 
is the particular demerit in a man wearing suspenders 
when he plays golf? There is no harm in a simple 
pair of suspenders. Indeed, they serve in many 
cases an admirable and necessary purpose. The 
man who plays golf in them may be of good moral 
character; he may be kind to his wife, and on good 
terms with his God; yet, when everything has been 
said in his favour, his utter hopelessness is only 
the more evident. 

Such a man is beyond the pale of human endeavour. 
Nothing can be done for him. His social redeemer 
has not yet come to earth. 



HIS WONDERFUL OPPORTUNITY 

SHE knew that he was coming. It had all been 
arranged beforehand over the telephone. Yet, 
as he rang the bell of her suburban villa, he was con- 
scious that he was embarrassed and flustered. One 
does not acquire the habit of proposing every day 
to pretty girls. 

He was ushered from the bright light of day into a 
semi-toned room full of people. She advanced 
cordially and waved her hand about, introducing him. 

"This," she said, with a trace of self-consciousness, 
"is the gentleman who is going to propose to me. Be 
seated, everybody, and the ceremony will proceed." 

"But I can't " 

"Now, my dear, it's all right. It seems embar- 
rassing, but really, if you stop to think, it is all for 
the best. You see, this is our little club which meets 
during the season once every two weeks, of which 
I am the humble president. You needn't be awfully 
sentimental, you know. Just be yourself — only 
it must last an hour. Come, now, you won't spoil 
it all, will you? Be nice about it. Remember my 
reputation is at stake. Every other suburb for 
miles around copies us." 

180 



HIS WONDERFUL OPPORTUNITY 181 

He faced her, paralyzed with surprise. The 
audience began to applaud. 

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded. 

"Go on," she replied. "That's splendid. A little 
quarrel first will be an immense help and will lead 
up to the real business." 

He sternly took her hand. More applause. 

"Come," he said, "this has gone far enough! 
What do you mean?" 

"Well, you came around to propose, didn't you ? You 
told me so over the 'phone. You won't deny that." 

"Yes, I did," he stammered. 

"Then I thought I would avail myself of this 
splendid opportunity. You see, my dear, it's this 
way. Now that I've been elected president, I've 
simply got to get up an entertainment that will in- 
terest people. We've danced until we are sated 
with it. We've played bridge until we're bored to 
death. We've had afternoon teas and church fairs 
and authors' readings and musicals and recitations 
until we are all worn out, and so, dear, when you told 
me you were coming around to propose, I said: 
'Here's my chance for something new.' Go on, 
don't stop! You're going to make a hit. You've 
got 'em all going! The doors are all locked! You 
can't get away! Win me in three quarters of an 
hour, and I'm positive that when my head drops on 
your shoulder you'll get a rising vote of thanks!" 



A STAND-OFF 

THE Visible and the Invisible met. "We ought 
to come to some arrangement," said the Visible, 
"as to just who and what we are, and what we are 
both doing. The philosophers have been exercising 
their combined stupidity over us long enough/' 

"What do they say about us?" asked the Invisible. 

"To be honest, I don't quite know. Many of 
them praise you to the skies — say that you are the 
only real thing — while at the same time they declare 
that I am of no consequence." 

"Well, consider the source," said the Invisible. 
"I wouldn't allow a little thing like that to disturb 
me." 

"Well, then, what do you think of me?" asked 
the Visible. 

"How can I help but think well of you when I 
created you?" 

"That's news!" 

This made the Invisible smile an inscrutable smile. 

"Certainly. You know it's a wise child that 
knows its own parent. I made you what you are." 

"How?" 

"Quite easily," replied the Invisible. "If your 



A STAND-OFF 183 

parents were alive and could be seen, you would 
know them, wouldn't you?" 

"Why, yes. But I always supposed that I was an 
orphan." 

"Nonsense! Well, then, if your parents are not, 
and never have been, visible, they must have been 
invisible. That's exactly where I come in. If 
it were not for me you wouldn't be here." 

"Well, there's something in that!" 

"There's a lot in it, I assure you. But the trouble 
with you has been that you are spoiled. You think 
that just because you are visible you are at liberty 
to do as you please." 

"What would you advise?" 

"Be humble. Always bear in mind that I made 
you. Without me you couldn't exist, and it is too 
late to change anything." 



WHEN THE CITIES GO TO THE COUNTRY 

OUR cities need exercise. About the only outdoor 
sport they indulge in is watching the waiters in 
the roof gardens. The crop of wheat, corn, oats, and 
alfalfa grown in city roof gardens as yet has had no 
appreciable effect upon the world's supply — with 
the possible exception of alfalfa; but as this is grown 
in the shape of whiskers, the total amount of calories, 
or nourishment, is negligible. 

No, we must do something else. No city can 
afford to belong to more than one golf club; and at 
golf clubs you sow golf balls, but you rarely reap any. 
You can go out and lose all the golf balls you want 
to in a day, but when it comes to finding any, the 
best you can do is along about dusk to run across a 
battered, black, misshapen affair that looks as if it 
had been present at Verdun. 

No, brothers, there is nothing in that. Cities need 
farm life; and God knows that the farm needs cities. 

That is to say, the farms need the cities right out 
there. 

I once lived on a farm and I know all about the 
crying need for some city to sit down near, where it 
can be talked to and hobnobbed with. On that 
184 



CITIES GO TO THE COUNTRY 185 

farm I was always thirsty, and I always had to be 
drawing water. You know what happens when 
you just get started playing bridge with a lot of 
women in the little gold reception room at the club 
just off the main hall in the rear — the last room, 
where the attendants never penetrate. And just 
as you get started, all the women get thirsty at once. 
You spend the rest of the evening carting water to 
them and listening to what they say between hands. 
Well, that was the way it was at that farm. I was 
thirsty and all the women were thirsty, and the farm 
hands (who had to be catered to) were thirsty, and I 
spent all of my time wandering back and forth from 
the only well there was. Rebecca was a poor thing 
compared to me. And so I say that I don't blame 
any man for working on a farm and wishing he had 
a city somewhere on the premises, so he could sit 
down and get a drink — even if it was only a lemon 
seltzer — occasionally. 

We must do something about it, because if we 
don't, there won't be anything left to eat. The 
farmers are all leaving the farms and going to the 
cities. No crops. No vegetables. Nothing but 
society. It won't do. It's got to stop. Some city 
must come forward and volunteer. 

This idea, however, did not originate with me, but 
it came as the result of a conversation I overheard at 
a prominent New York hotel between two chappies. 



186 CITIES GO TO THE COUNTRY 

It shows that you never can tell where you may get 
an idea from anyway. 

"It's really quite sad, old boy," said one, "this 
agricultural situation of ours — quite desperate, I 
believe/' 

"Rawther," said the other. "I fancy you refer 
to the shortage of food. I feel strongly, strongly, 
old dear, that we ought to do something about it. 
I wouldn't mind working a couple of hours in the 
fields myself — if one could get the proper togs to- 
gether for that sort of thing. Wretched garments 
those farmers wear as a rule." 

"Still," said the other, lighting a cigarette, "it's 
exercise that counts, after all. Golf is all very well, 
but there's no particular object in it, you know — it 
really doesn't get one anywhere. Now if I could 
turn out a couple of bushels of alfalfa or grapefruit 
or artichokes or shredded wheat or whatever it is 
they grow in those foreign states of ours, I should 
feel much better about it than if I played a round of 
mere golf." 

"Ha!" exclaimed the other bright one, ever ready 
to take his little joke, "mere golf is good! That's 
what you are, deah boy — a mere golfer — Ha! But 
of course we couldn't run out to Kansas or Missouri 
or whatever those places are, unless we had a decent 
place to sleep. It's all very well exercising during 
the day — no one minds that in moderation — but 



CITIES GO TO THE COUNTRY 187 

one must throw oneself, you know, on a decent bed. 
I'm told they have no box springs west of — dear 
me, I think it's Indianapolis. Fancy having to 
sleep on something that wasn't a box spring! If 
we could only take New York with us, what a ripping 
adventure!" 

And so there you are. There's the idea. And 
it is easier than you think. It can be done. Greater 
feats in mechanical engineering are being accom- 
plished constantly. New York is the one to do it, 
above all others. New York is the great consumer. 
New York must be taken down, and reassembled 
where it will do the most good. 

The facts — as I have indicated, I trust not too 
peevishly, for even in the fact of a great crisis we 
must be calm — are simple. Economists are thunder- 
ing them. Politicians and reformers are declaring 
them. Pompous industrial experts are explaining 
them; and in spite of what these gentlemen say, we 
still believe them true. In the language of editorial 
writers and a high official who wishes me to withhold 
his name, a crisis confronts us. And this is no com- 
mon crisis, even if it is a garden one. Yes, gentlemen 
and friends of mine, unless the city can go to the 
country we shall all starve. We cannot discriminate. 
If we could, then we wouldn't need to do a single 
thing. If we could arrange it so that the people we 
want to starve would starve, we wouldn't care if the 



1 88 CITIES GO TO THE COUNTRY 

cities never did anything about it. But the chances 
are — if we can judge from history — that all the people 
who ought to starve will not. And all the grand 
folks like you and me, upon whom the whole coun- 
try is depending for its character and moral uplift 
and intellectual material and rich humour and good 
breeding, will all lack enough to eat. That's why 
we must do something, now. Unless the men who 
have been steadily going from the country to the 
city can be made to turn back and go to the country, 
what is going to happen to us? We will run out of 
things to eat just about the same week that the stuff 
we have stored up in our lockers gives out. Maybe 
Providence has made special arrangements to have 
this happen, on the principle that if there is nothing 
left in one's locker, food is of no consequence. But, 
on the other hand, we have faith to believe — some- 
how or other — that that stuff in the lockers is going 
to be renewed. Say this in whispers, please. 

And the great fact is that the sons of men, and of 
women also, now that they can vote, have stolen 
away from the wheat fields and have become strap- 
hangers and movie fans. The man who used to sit 
on the top of a reaper and guide the destinies of a 
hundred blades through a furrow is now sitting in a 
dark room watching Doug Fairbanks act as if he was 
really happy. 

And the cities have felt secure. Swollen in their 



CITIES GO TO THE COUNTRY 189 

arrogance, they have thought that all they had to 
do was to touch a bell and the waiter would come 
from Nebraska, with a tray full of lilies of the valley, 
pomegranates, corn meal, asbestos, or whatever 
makes a good smart salad. 

New York knew that this was coming. New York 
wanted to be safe in its insularity and selfishness, 
so it had itself grown on an island. It was started 
by a lot of Dutch farmers who said: "We know what 
it is to be lonesome. Very well. We'll make this 
place look like real money and nobody can take it 
away from us." 

Now New York thinks it is immune. 

"Here I am," says New York, "contributing noth- 
ing to the world but jazz, journalism, and jesters, 
supported by all, the great consumer of all the 
ages. My streets are filled with stragglers from the 
remotest corners of the continent. Who shall say 
me nay?" 

But some of the best buildings in New York are 
getting restless. Pretty soon they will all go on 
strike. They are not only entitled to a vacation 
but the country needs them. 

What they need in Kansas is Greenwich Village. 
Then why not let Greenwich go to Kansas? It 
could be reassembled in the midst of the farming dis- 
trict, and there, after they have been working in 
the wheat fields and sporting with the razor-backed 



190 CITIES GO TO THE COUNTRY 

hogs, the embattled farmers could motor in the 
evening and get what they want. 

Why not put the Ritz-Carleton on wheels and 
give it one-night stands in the most prolific regions 
of Nebraska? This is how the Ritz feels about 
it: 

"I should love it. I should rejoice in moving 
about over the prairies and, knowing that I was near 
enough to solace them with my manners and decora- 
tions, it would comfort me to think that I was helping 
them on their job. Now I am only a New Yorker. 
Let me be a citizen of the whole country." 

Other cities, inspired by this noble example, would 
soon follow suit. 

Think of all the athletic clubs, those hotbeds of 
bridge and swimming pools and billiards and sporting 
gossip — with a few dumb-bells on the side — making 
tours through farm lands so that men who had 
been toiling through the day by the sweat of their 
brows could put on their Tuxedoes at night and 
listen to jazz bands and jazz ladies and jazz celeb- 
rities ! 

Think of little old New York being of some use to 
the country after all these years — and this in spite 
of itself! folding its tent like Barnum's circus and 
silently stealing away to the West and South. Maybe 
we wouldn't have enough to eat then! 

I spoke to the Woolworth Building about it, and 



CITIES GO TO THE COUNTRY 191 

the Woolworth Building said: "I have a little song 
that I will sing to you. I hope you will like it." 
And this is the 

Song of the Woolworth Building 

i am the guardian of the western world. i 
am the high sentinel of big business. the 
statue of liberty cowers before me. 

rejoice, o states, in the splendour of my 
commercial majesty. and yet too long have 
i also been a new yorker. 

across the fields of golden grain i beckon to 
the pacific. farmers, await my coming. delay 
not the toil. 

garner the wheat. i shall come among thee, 
i am a citizen of the land. 

rejoice that i am not rooted to the spot where 
i was born. my duty henceforth lies with thee. 

follow me into the fields, ye city dwellers, 
that together we may save the soil. 

hail, states! my shadow shall not grow less 
among you ! 



AN INTERRUPTED ARGUMENT 

EXTRAVAGANCE and Economy met. 
"I wonder," said Extravagance, who had a 
broad-minded outlook on life, "whether there is any 
way that we can get together?" 

"I am afraid not," said Economy, naturally close- 
mouthed. 

"I am willing to try," said Extravagance. "I 
have long been curious to meet you. Now that I 
have a good view, you seem to me to be a strangely 
ignoble-looking creature." 

"Possibly. But all the logic is on my side." 

"And Nature is on mine. The sun, for example, 
is one of my votaries. Think of how the sun wastes. 
He is a terrible spendthrift, in rays. What makes 
you believe that all the logic is on your side?" 

"Well, think of all the mistakes people have made 
following you. But nobody ever made a mistake fol- 
lowing me." 

"Why, my dear friend, how can you make such an 
assertion ? All the big things have been done through 
me. I have absolute command of courage and vision. 
What you acquire is done by caution and narrow- 
ness." 

192 



AN INTERRUPTED ARGUMENT 193 

How long their argument would have lasted no- 
body knows, but at this moment they were inter- 
rupted by a cheerful stranger. He smiled upon 
them both so pleasantly that they stopped short. 

"You're both wrong," said the stranger. "AH 
the big things have been done by both of you. 
You've often worked together, only you haven't seen 
each other. I know, because I've been there." 

"Who are you?" 

The stranger grinned. 

"My name is Happy Medium." 



THE IMPOSSIBLES 

A PURELY IMAGINARY TALE OF SUBURBAN LIFE 

FOR some weeks Billington — who lived in a 
growing suburban town — had noticed a cool- 
ness among his neighbours. Old friends, who were 
in the habit of coming up and chatting with him when 
he took his morning train, no longer approached him. 
One morning, however, as he stood on the platform 
by himself, vainly wondering what was the matter 
with the world, Dilber, who lived within three doors, 
came up and said significantly: 

"A word with you." 

"Proceed," said Billington, with proud coolness, 
as they entered the train and sank simultaneously 
into the same seat. 

"I am sorry to say it," said Dilber, "but you are 
not the right kind of a man we want in our commun- 

ity." 

"What do you mean?" said Billington. 

Dilber, who had evidently been commissioned to 
do his duty, leaned over and whispered : 

"It's just this. You were asked to run for the 
Board of Education, and you refused. You were 
requested to become a member of the town council, 
194 



THE IMPOSSIBLES 195 

and you refused; you were asked to run for Freeholder 
and you refused. You wouldn't even join the Civic 
League, I am not going to say anything more now. 
Just think it over. We want to be perfectly fair, 
of course, but every citizen must do his share. Good 
morning." 

Before he knew it Billington was alone. Dilber, 
having conveyed what was undoubtedly a warning, 
disappeared into another car. Billington pondered 
all the way to the office and through his morning's 
mail on what Dilber had said. 

That night at dinner Mrs. Billington said to him: 
"This morning I was called on by two ladies. What 
do you suppose they said?" 

Billington, wiser than he seemed, answered: 

"I'll bet I know; they came to tell you that you 
hadn't joined something." 

His wife opened her eyes. 

"That's precisely it," she exclaimed, "though I 
can't imagine how you guessed it; they said I did 
not belong to the woman's club, although I had 
been asked, and there were a lot of other societies 
which I had declined to belong to." 

"I was told the same thing." 

"What shall we do?" 

Whatever Billington's other shortcomings might 
be, he was at least a keen business man. 

"My dear," he said at last, "one thing is certain. 



196 THE IMPOSSIBLES 

We are no longer wanted. That being the case, now 
is the time to sell out and move away to some more 
desirable place, where we will be more fully appreci- 
ated. " 

In another hour they were sitting in the office of 
the local real-estate dealer. 

This gentleman's face brightened. 

"Quite remarkable," he said with a smile, "to 
think that you should have come in just at this mo- 
ment, for I have a man who wants to buy your 
house. What is your price ?" 

Billington named a figure two thousand dollars 
more than he paid for it. 

"Done." 

The preliminary payment was made and the papers 
signed. Then Billington, rising with his wife, turned 
to the real-estate man. 

"We have lived in this town for the past five 
years," he said. "During this period we have never 
created the slightest disturbance; we have gone about 
our affairs quietly, and have refused to mix up in 
what did not concern us. I, on my part, have kept out 
of politics, and my wife has kept out of all the new 
woman's fads. Nobody can cast the slightest asper- 
sion upon us as neighbours. Now, sir, will you, out 
of the depth of your experience and knowledge of 
this place, tell me what in the world is the matter 
with us?" 



THE IMPOSSIBLES 197 

"Don't you know?" said the real-estate man. 

"No, sir, I don't." 

"Well, I'll tell you; you are the only people who 
live here who strictly mind your own business. Isn't 
that enough?" 



WELL, WHY IS WALL STREET? 

HAS Wall Street a sense of humour? She has 
been portrayed as a nervous old lady starting 
at the slightest noise, afraid of her own shadow, so 
timid that a change of wind is likely to make her 
jump out of her skin. 

There are a great many people who do not under- 
stand what Wall Street really is. Some say it is a 
national vermiform appendix, and ought to be re- 
moved. Others declare that it is an exhaust pipe 
and a necessary outlet to keep the ship of state from 
blowing up. 

Wall Street is a place where you can buy and sell 
something you haven't got with money that you 
don't see from people that you never meet. One 
man nods to another, and either you are broke, or 
you can go on buying real food. 

Nobody sits down in Wall Street, yet the seats are 
worth about eighty thousand each. You buy one 
for the privilege of standing up and throwing fits. 
The word "broker" is derived from "broke," which 
means that the only time a broker is broke is when 
he is not a broker — that is, when he becomes a bull, 
a bear, or a lamb. As long as he does nothing but 
buy and sell for others, he is safe. No broker will 
198 



WELL, WHY IS WALL STREET? 199 

admit that he does anything else. Yet most brokers 
do. Many people also think that Wall Street is a 
branch of the Zoo. In addition to the bulls, bears, 
and lambs, they have sharks and wildcats. The 
animals are supposed to live on paper, and to absorb 
large quantities of water. The public is also the 
goat. 

It will be seen from this that Wall Street is not 
always what it seems to be. It is not apparently 
a respector of persons, and yet it is undoubtedly 
truer to some than to others. It is moody, variable, 
fickle as a weather cock; and yet from hour to hour 
and from day to day it declares it knows what every- 
one is worth in dollars and cents, no matter how hum- 
ble or remote that person may be. It is affected 
by the climate of Manchuria, and the feelings of 
folks in India and Egypt bear upon its decisions. 
An atmospheric pressure over Iceland, or a stabbing 
affray in Bulgaria may, through Wall Street, reach 
into the homes of America and send little children 
supperless to bed. 

A movement to abolish Wall Street has long been 
contemplated by highly intelligent people. For 
one thing, Wall Street is a part of New York and it is 
generally felt that this leaves it open to grave suspi- 
cion. 

If, however, instead of being restricted, it could be 
made to include millinery, ladies* garments, shoes 



200 WELL, WHY IS WALL STREET? 

and hosiery, furs and jewellery, and placed in charge 
of some lady as President, who had her husband's 
interest at heart, the process of saving this country 
from financial ruin might be put on a business basis. 
At present a man may know at any moment how 
many shares of stock have been bought and sold 
for him, and how much he has won or lost, but when 
he comes home at night his wife's financial transac- 
tions leave him guessing. A woman's Wall Street, 
with the price of every hat listed, would certainly 
add to the joys of home life, besides lifting up the 
conversation of women to the high level of big 
business. 

Two ladies would meet with the following results: 
"What do you think of Ostrich plumes preferred?" 
"Trifle heavy. Do you know anything?" 
"I bought a couple of beauties yesterday on margin. 
I'm looking for a big rise." 

"I suppose you'll pyramid. But be careful and 
look out for a slump. Parisian models second de- 
benture stood me in for a ten-point loss; fortunately 
I made good on a sport skirt I sold short. But I 
must say, my dear, the market is soft and I advise 
you to be careful." 

"Trust me for that. But I must give you a piece 
of inside news. You know Bessie Smartling. Well, 
she tried to corner the market in husbands' sack 
suits common. Suddenly, however, someone began 



WELL, WHY IS WALL STREET? 201 

a big selling movement, the bottom dropped out, and 
it will take her months to recuperate." 

"Serves her right to bother with male holdings; 
as for me, I stick to legitimate offerings. Men may 
have to stop wearing clothes at any time, but even 
when women do stop, they will buy them just the 
same." 

Wall Street, indeed, is but the narrowest expres- 
sion of a universal activity. Wall Street expresses 
itself only in dollars and cents, but it stands as a 
representative of the gambling instinct inherent in 
mankind. And the singular part of it is that the 
men who are engaged in it are quite largely philoso- 
phers. As an offset to the nervous strain of the ex- 
change, they seek outside methods of mental tran- 
quillity. I know a broker devoted to the classics; 
another who has a fine collection of Whistlers. 
These gentlemen indeed rarely talk business; it is 
only the so-called "trader," the man who "dabbles/' 
whose conversation is interlarded with "shorts" 
and "futures" and "tips" and private deals. 

Human beings, old and young, feelings, sentiments, 
heart burnings, jealousies, loves, and hates are 
bought and sold every day in the great human mart. 
Yet there is no accredited Wall Street of humanity, 
as well there might be. If there were, we might open 
our paper in the morning and read our market 
letter in human values: 



202 WELL, WHY IS WALL STREET? 

Yesterday the market in human beings reached to various 
influences, many of them invisible and others more apparent. 
Politicians were offered freely, the bid and asked quotations being 
far apart: toward noon there was a wide selling movement with 
little support, but accompanied by later rallies resulting in sub- 
stantial gains. 

Slums ruled firm, there being no appreciable diminution in the 
supply, and child labour common was freely offered in large 
quantities, the demand, however, keeping the market well up. 
Husbands preferred was among the attractions, advancing some 
ten points under pressure and Western buying orders, while 
Suffragettes continued their popularity shown early in the week. 
In the early afternoon there was a distinct slump, notably a fall 
in school teachers common demoralizing the entire list: military 
securities were also weak. Among the high-price specialties 
very closely held may be mentioned Society Queens and Debu- 
tante Firsts, a large pool in the latter having been developed by a 
few of our leading millenaries. Just before the close the market 
broke. 



It is the custom of various gentlemen, who, like 
the side shows around the main tent, offer their 
wares to the public, to send out weekly financial 
letters in which the prospects for buying and selling 
are set forth with great skill. It seems a sad lack 
of business acumen on our part, especially with our 
commercial reputation, that nobody has sought to 
do this with regard to those matters which are sup- 
posed to make us really happy or unhappy. It is 
not improbable, however, that the reason for this is 
because no material results are brought into view. 

Yet, after all, why is it not important that our 



WELL, WHY IS WALL STREET? 203 

future gamble with fate should be reinforced by the 
kindly services of the expert ? 

For example: 

Our Weekly Human Service Letter. 

{Follow our advice closely, and you will be well repaid.) 

The prospect for early adjustment of all matters of the heart 
must be considered along with the reports from osculation centres, 
which bear out what we said last week, vampires still ruling 
strong and the cost of domestic goods making all unions precari- 
ous. While mothers-in-law and aunts continue firm, honeymoons 
have gone up and all offsprings are at the owner's risk. Wedding 
exchanges are lively, with few takers, however, and parents con- 
tinue to be active. 



WHEN YOU PROPOSE 

COMPLETE GUIDE TO OPENERS FOR THE USE OF 
TACTFUL PERSONS 

1DO not wish to alarm you unnecessarily, but the 
fatal moment has at last arrived. " 

"Shall I draw my chair closer? I am afraid that 
what I am now about to say to you, if overheard by 
others, might be the cause of vulgar comment." 

"Do you remember the first day we met? Ah! 
How vividly it rises to my mind! Well, since 
then " 

"Don't be startled, but would you mind if I called 
you darling?" 

"Doesn't it seem rather warm to you? But per- 
haps I feel it more because I am about to perform an 
action which has the most momentous consequences 
of a lifetime— for both of us!" 

"Do you know this is the twenty-third call I have 
made? I suppose we must both begin to realize 
that this cannot go on forever. Well, dear " 

"How cold your hand is to-night! Ha! It 
isn't much like my heart, I can tell you! Speaking 

of hearts " 

204 



WHEN YOU PROPOSE 205 

"I hope you didn't mind my coming so early. But 
the fact is, I have a terrible evening before me. 
That is, I mean — oh " 

"Struggle as I will, I can no longer conceal from 
you the fact that " 

"Isn't that a new rug? Oh, no! You must par- 
don me, but ever since we first met, nothing has 
looked the same to me. And now " 



THE BROWN BEAR EXPLAINS 

WHAT I don't understand," said the hippo, 
as he displaced nearly all of the water in his 
bathtub, "is what we've done." 

The visitors had not yet arrived at the Zoo, and 
in the big animal house the usual early-morning 
conversation was taking place. 

"I have an idea," said a small gray wolf across the 
way, "that they think we're dangerous." 

"Nonsense!" growled the lion, pacing up and 
down and swishing his tail angrily. "If there's one 
thing we all pride ourselves upon when we are home 
it is minding our own business. As for my own 
family, human beings are an acquired taste. It is 
only when they force themselves into our domain 
that we eat them. They go to immense pains to 
take us prisoners — and for what, as you sagely re- 
mark, Hippo? What, I wonder, is our particular 
crime?" 

The brown bear now spoke up. 

"They do it to their own kind," he now asserted. 

"What!" exclaimed everybody. "Impossible!" 

"Yes," persisted the brown bear. "It's true. 
Of course, you see a lot of folks who are free to wan- 
206 



THE BROWN BEAR EXPLAINS 207 

der about, who pass here every day — apparently 
for the sole purpose of taunting and annoying us — 
but the day I came here I observed a curious thing. 
At least it furnished me with an object for philo- 
sophical reflection. " 

"Go on!" exclaimed everybody. Even the sloth 
looked up. 

"Well," continued the brown bear, "on my 
way I passed a large, massive stone building, with 
heavy iron bars, such as we have here in front of 
every window. There was a high stone fence all 
around, with a path on top of it, and keepers walking 
back and forth armed with guns. Inside were a lot 
of human beings confined there just as we are. Also 
there were free people passing in, apparently to poke 
sticks at them as they do to us. So, you see, these 
humans do it to their own kind. Singular, isn't it?" 

There was a considerable silence. Finally the 
rhino, who shared with the bear a philosophical 
temperament, asked: 

"How do you account for it?" 

"I think I have the solution," said the brown bear. 
"At any rate, even if it isn't true, nobody here will 
be able to contradict me in a matter where nobody 
can really tell. But at least it is an interesting theory, 
and I am entitled to believe it, because I have spent 
more time than the rest of you in thinking it out." 

"Go on!" chorused everybody. 



208 THE BROWN BEAR EXPLAINS 

The brown bear smiled. 

"Simply this," he replied. "These people that 
we see moving about freely, without being confined, 
are all of them bad people, with no virtues, but full 
of criminal instincts. That is plain to all of us. 
They have bad manners, they are common, cheap, 
vulgar, and in fact, utterly impossible. Look how 
they stare at us, and what they do and say! But 
they, mind you, are in the majority. Now we, as 
my friend the lion has just pointed out so ably, al- 
ways mind our own business. We are truly virtuous. 
They can't stand this. It offends their nasty little 
pride — makes them jealous. Therefore they go out 
and capture us and lock us up. They do the same 
to their own kind. Those they lock up are the really 
good ones, just like us, who mind our own affairs." 

"Your conclusion," said the rhino, "appears to 
me to be strictly logical and in accordance with all 
the observed facts and circumstances. But there 
is just one little thing I should like to ask you: If 
what you say is true, why don't they kill us all off 
at once instead of keeping us cooped up — at con- 
siderable expense — merely to look at?" 

"Ah!" exclaimed the brown bear. "I was hoping 
that you would enable me to bring out that thought. 
You see, my friends, that is the whole point. These 
people are not aware of what I have been saying. 
They are all labouring under a delusion. They think 



THE BROWN BEAR EXPLAINS 209 

that they are good and that we whom they keep 
confined in cages and jails are vicious, and they 
don't kill us because of their morbid curiosity, which 
is part and parcel with all their badness. They 
take a certain kind of degenerate pleasure in looking 
at those they are deluded into believing are worse 
than they are." 

"As if such a thing were possible!" said the lion. 

But at this point the conversation was interrupted 
by the opening of the doors and the appearance of a 
diminutive human being who cried with great gusto: 

"Extra! All about the great divorce case!" 



BOYS 

THIS IS GOOD TO SKIP — IF YOU DON'T LIKE BOYS. 
ALSO, IT'S A LITTLE SERIOUS 

ALL the world loves a boy — but are you sure you 
know what a boy is? Think of learning as 
much as a man learns in a lifetime and forgetting 
the most important thing of all — how to continue to 
be a boy! 

When we picture nations or collections of people 
generally, we always picture them as grown men. 
We say that Japan is a race of little men. We pic- 
ture Russia as inhabited by a race of semi-giants, 
with blue eyes and blond whiskers. Perhaps the 
nearest approach to our thinking of men as boys 
was in our own army. We saw them in the training 
camps and on the march, we saw how young they 
looked, and we were actually forced to think of them 
— perhaps momentarily — as boys. In the distance 
they became men again. 

Manual labour of almost any kind ages human 
beings rapidly. If you look at a gang of labourers 
working in the street, at first glance they will all 
seem old. It is only when you come to study them 



BOYS 211 

carefully that you will see that they are not really 
so old as they look; and pretty soon you will discern 
boys among them. So it is that among the workers a 
large proportion of the individuals are boys, and if 
you come to think of them in this way you will be 
amazed to discover that your whole conception of 
society, of government, of politics, and of humanity 
in general has undergone a very substantial change. 
The boys are the ones who are doing the work of the 
world. It is, therefore, of great importance to know 
what a boy is. And do not be too sure that you do 
know. It's a wise father who knows his own child, 
and the wise fathers are not over-plenty. If you are 
a man, you never think of yourself as a boy. Fur- 
thermore, you can scarcely remember the time when 
you thought of yourself as a boy. That is one reason 
why, when you think of collections of other men, you 
do not think of them as boys. The probability is 
that your wife thinks of you as a boy when she 
doesn't think of you as a baby. Your wife has you 
sized up all right. It is hard to fool any woman 
about boys. A woman knows when a boy is a boy — 
which is most of the time — and no old boy posing as a 
grown man can get away with it with a woman. So 
you see a nice, delicate, graceful girl knowing just 
how to handle some pompous old general, with his 
chest covered with medals and subject to an eight- 
inch expansion, before an admiring crowd. She isn't 



212 BOYS 

fooled for a moment in the presence of such an over- 
powering personality. She knows that he is only a 
boy, she knows how foolish he can act, and he also 
knows that the grandstand stuff carries no weight 
with her. He can fool other men, but not the girls. 
And he does fool, not only the other men, but him- 
self. 

And this is precisely the thing that makes fathers 
so often go wrong with regard to their boys. For 
even when you think of your boy, you don't think 
of him as being a boy, but as being subject to the 
same standards as your own. You want him to 
measure up to these standards, and when he doesn't 
you lose your temper and denounce him. And the 
boy goes off somewhere and sulks; or he leaves home 
altogether. What every father doesn't know about 
his boy would fill a large book. 

The first thing we must get into our heads is just 
what all the boys are doing and what they are that 
makes them do it in the way they are doing it. You 
see a lot of young fellows hanging around a railroad 
station, ranging in age from seventeen to twenty- 
three or twenty-four. They are all "boys." They 
look like loafers, and for the time being they are. 
Most of them are smoking cigarettes; yet in other 
moments it is astonishing how they can toss off 
work as if it were mere nothing. 

Now the one thing about a boy that is character- 



BOYS 213 

istic is this — his apparent indifference, his oflfhanded- 
ness, his sweeping aside with a gesture — what? 
Well, everything that gets in his way. " Forget it ! " : 
that's his favourite term. He is absolutely proof 
against being bored, for he will grin insolently in the 
face of any long-winded philosophy, or indeed any 
attempt at definition. Words weary him. He calls 
this sort of thing "guff." And he comes nearer being 
right than generations of seers; for the seers have been 
trying for a long time to adjust things, and the boy 
has their number. He has it instinctively, and that 
is only one of many things that he has instinctively. 
For one thing, you can't frighten him. No predic- 
tion of panic or disaster has the slightest weight with 
him. He is out for a good time, he is running after 
the girls and sorting them out as he once did with 
his "pures" (and finding doubtless a great many 
nicks); he is playing craps and the races and other 
things, and he is going to church or preserving the 
appearance of outward rectitude just as much as it is 
necessary to do so. Of course, he is not "bad." He 
is too healthy to be that. Or if he is "bad" it is 
because he has been under-nourished as a baby, and 
subjected generally to degenerative physical in- 
fluences. But a boy who is just plain boy is superior 
to everything in heaven and earth because he has not 
acquired the art of learning how to be afraid. He 
hasn't got gun-shy. He can do anything he wants 



2i 4 BOYS 

to without caring about the consequences. And 
the singular thing is that while he is rattling along 
at his own pace he is the real force that moves the 
world. Remove this boy from all the work that is 
being done in the world, and the rest would be a 
pitiful thing. And yet he does it as an aside. 

You know what they say in the movies when you 
are doing a thing just right — "hold that!" Well, 
if you could hold that boy stuff all your life, you'd 
be a superman. Indeed, that is the principal test 
of greatness — to keep on being a boy, and never get 
over it. All the big fellows have been that way. 
When you see a man bent over with the problems 
of the world, with a line of indigestion reaching from 
his nose to a corner of his mouth, and he tells you 
that we can't hold out much longer, that he is going 
to sell out everything before to-morrow night — then 
you are listening to a shell. He sounds hollow and 
he looks hollow. Nothing of that goes with a boy. 
He tears off whatever comes his way, and it's all in a 
day's doings. It's only when he gets broken to 
harness that he begins to show signs of weakness. 
And when he becomes a man he is only good with 
the remains of a boy that are left in him and that he 
cannot get rid of. You never quite kill the boy in a 
man. When you do, he goes to the bone-yard. 

It's a strange thing, therefore, that when fathers 
are contending with their boys they don't know that 



BOYS 215 

they are contending with something bigger than 
themselves. What most men have learned only 
stands in the way of their knowing what they ought 
to about boys. When a boy has gotten over being 
one and has become a man, he develops a kind of 
acquired courage, a manufactured article that he 
uses proudly, as a shield, and puts it at the foot 
of his bed when he goes to sleep. The boy has 
nothing of that sort. His courage is not manufac- 
tured — it is only an absence of fear. 

Every generation makes its own standards, due 
to its heritage and the force of circumstances. It 
has its vocabulary, its manners, and its morals, these 
being mostly the result of climate and economics. 
It tries to fasten all these things on the generation 
that is coming, and it partly succeeds. It doesn't 
quite succeed. The difference, the margin, is very 
slight. It is so slight that you can scarcely detect it; 
but that is what constitutes progress. The boy isn't 
quite cured. He leaves something of his essence 
and his spirit, before it is beaten out of him, and 
that thing persists. 

In this world things go by contraries. You don't 
believe it? Let me illustrate. You don't see the 
boys trying to teach their elders. To these elders 
they are absolutely indifferent, except so far as they 
can get out of them what they want — usually ex- 
pressed in terms of dollars and cents. A boy lets 



216 BOYS 

his father alone to go his own way. You don't hear 
a boy lecturing the old man on how late he is sitting 
up nights. The boy may know that the old man is a 
hypocrite and a liar — that he is posing as being an 
exemplary member when in reality he is a skunk. 
The boy may secretly despise him — but the boy 
doesn't take the old fellow aside and give him a piece 
of advice. There isn't very much about the old 
man that the boy doesn't know. But he makes no 
show of it, he hasn't got time for it. It is dull stuff. 
When, therefore, the old man tries to teach the boy, 
the boy listens with lack-lustre eye. And when the 
old man denounces him, the boy is intensely bored. 
The best thing the old man can do, if he did but know 
it, is to keep his mouth shut, but he hasn't sense 
enough. All that is the man part of him. The 
best fathers are those who are still boys, like their 
sons. When they are this, they can do a lot for the 
boys. Logically speaking, a man's experience ought 
to be worth something. What a fellow has learned 
through a lifetime by a series of hard knocks ought 
to be of some use to his boy. Yet it very seldom is. 
The worse of it is that he invariably blames the boy 
for not making use of it. 

Wouldn't you think that any man, when he dis- 
covers that his own boy is not getting any good out 
of his previous experience, would at least look about 
him and discover if he is the exception to the rule? 



BOYS 217 

Instead of that, he makes comparisons, which are the 
worst thing he could make. He says to the boy: 
"Pity you can't learn from me; look at Johnny 
Jones — he's a model boy, because he looks up to his 
father and does as his father wants him to. Pity 
that you can't be like Johnny Jones! All you got 
to do is to follow in my footsteps and you'll be all 
right. That's what Johnny Jones is doing." 

The probability is that Johnny Jones is not doing 
that sort of thing at all, but only fooling the old man. 
Johnny Jones looks like a perfectly good boy, but 
you never can tell. In about ten years he may be 
robbing a bank. That's the trouble about boys. 
No prediction you can make about them is safe. 
And it takes such a long time to find out whether 
you have guessed right or not, that you may all be 
dead before you know. The only thing you can do 
is to take boys as they are, and get them placed right. 
They have got one thing — youth — that appears to 
beat every other possession out of sight. And we 
wonder why we cannot all keep this thing. Why 
not ? Youth doesn't mean that you may not be dead 
to-morrow. A boy makes nothing of death. He 
has no mind for it. So far as he is concerned, death 
is a thing that simply doesn't exist. Yet think of 
how he meets it — with that wonderful indifference, 
that sublime carelessness and irresponsibility, a 
waving of it aside! No death-bed scene for him. 



2i8 BOYS 

He jumps into his machine, the engine whirrs, he sits 
a little tighter, and with a smile on his face, he is off 
to his rendezvous with death, too busy with the pres- 
ent moment to dwell upon what may be almost a 
certainty. That is the way those boys went to 
Zeebrugge — that is the way all boys go. So that 
the thing we call youth might just as well be enjoyed 
by an old man as not — if he only knew how. I re- 
peat: Think of learning as much as a man learns in 
a lifetime, and forgetting the most important thing 
of all — how to continue to be a boy! That ought to 
show us that what we acquire in the way of knowl- 
edge is of no consequence — it means nothing along- 
side of an attitude. It isn't where you are going, 
where you came from, what you are doing that 
counts, but it's the way you hold yourself. 

Yet we old fellows, we grown-ups, must have some- 
thing about us that is worth while. We cannot 
utterly and completely be dismissed as being no 
good on earth. The boys can learn from us if they 
only would or if we only had the sense to tell them 
how. We ought to be interesting to them, but some- 
how we are not. If we are interesting to them it is 
because we have forgotten for the moment that we 
are anything else but what they are. Yet what we 
know is substantial, and worth while their learning. 
So at least it seems. 

It is really like the difference between capital and 



BOYS 219 

labour. Youth represents labour, and old age the 
accumulated capital of wisdom and experience. Age 
is willing to give up what it has to youth without even 
an exchange. Age knows that it has lost its youth 
through its own folly and thinks, in its foolishness, 
that youth will accept this thing called experience. 

But how can you expect a boy to learn anything 
from a man when the man has given up voluntarily — 
or because he didn't know any better — the one thing 
that makes the boy superior to him, namely youth ? 

You have seen old men who have not given up their 
youth, so you know the thing can be done. You 
don't see these youthful old men go about preaching 
disaster. They are always ready to play. And you 
don't hear them reading sermons to their boys — 
they are too busy tossing the ball to them. It is 
from this kind of men that the boys can learn; and 
therefore if a man wishes to be any good in the world, 
he must keep his youth, if he gives up everything 
else. He may lose his hair and his teeth, but he must 
keep his youth. Youth is a mental possession and 
nobody can take it away from you if you say not. 
When you keep it, the boy respects it in you more than 
anything else, and he will listen to you more readily 
because he knows that you have got something he 
may use. He isn't going to listen to any man who 
has lost his youth, no matter how much wisdom 
that man may boast of; that man is discredited. 



220 BOYS 

That is why when a father has occasion to punish 
his boy, he should not do it as a father, but as another 
boy. That is to say, the punishment should come 
from one who has something to impart and not from 
one who has something to withhold. If a father 
gives his boy a licking (and it has by no means been 
established that a licking is not, after all, a good 
thing) he should give it because it stands for the 
kind of thing that the boy ought to have. It is as 
much as to say: "Here is all my experience and 
wisdom; you, the boy, fail to take advantage of it; 
I must therefore pound it into you." 

The boy, you know, really can learn something 
from his father. A licking may call his attention 
to this fact much more effectively than in any other 
way; it is a means of arresting his attention not to be 
despised. It may be the best thing the father has, 
if he uses it early enough and wisely enough; and 
yet it does not speak much for the accumulated wis- 
dom of man when the best thing a father can do to 
his son is to subjugate him, teach him so early this 
lesson of benevolent assimilation — for benevolent 
assimilation, so called, usually means a sound thrash- 
ing somewhere along the line. "I will whale the 
life out of you," says the old man. "When you 
grow up and want to impart your principle to others, 
that is what you must do to them. It's the only 
way." And so, if the boy learns his prayers at 



BOYS 221 

his mother's knee, he learns his militarism at his 
father's. 

These boys that, if we look closely, we see all 
around us — on the street corners, in the railroad 
stations, lolling and loafing, and marching and toil- 
ing and fighting — these boys might be willing to 
learn a great deal more from us if they believed in 
us more. And why is it that they do not ? Because 
they see too clearly our failure. We came before 
them to clear the ground. It is through us that they 
have come, and if they talked or reasoned about it 
all, this is what they would say: "Why is it, that, 
even before we are born you make the conditions so 
that we don't have an even chance with so many of 
the others?" 

Take us as a whole, we fathers, and what have we 
done, or what are we doing, for all the boys who are 
yet unborn, but who will surely come? We say 
to the boys who are already here: 

"Come, you must be like us." 

If they said anything at all in reply, they would jeer 
and say: 

"Like you, eh? And what have you done for us? 
You spend your time in wrangling over politics, in 
robbing each other, in fighting for privilege. You 
are ready to make no concessions among yourselves; 
the result is that the majority of us are being born 
in your manufactured slums, and after we are born 



222 BOYS 

you come and preach to us and tell us that you wish 
we would be like you. To hell with you!" 

And what is the thing that we preach to the boy? 
We tell him to avoid temptation; we point to the 
gambling house, to the race track, to the den of vice, 
and we did point to the corner saloon, but that's 
been covered up. We point to all these things and 
tell the boy he must avoid them, when we ourselves 
are the ones who placed them there. No wonder 
the boy doesn't quite know what to think of us. 
Moreover, if he did think much about it he would 
say: 

"Not only have you manufactured all these temp- 
tations for our use, but you have actually created the 
conditions under which we are being born, so that 
we are not physically able to cope with them." 

We have done even more than this. Most of us 
are too busy to teach the boys ourselves. We are 
trying to make enough money to make sure of spoiling 
them in case all other means fail. And so, when we 
cannot teach them ourselves, we get others to do it 
for us; and then we make the conditions so impossible 
for the others that they cannot live. If we, the 
taxpayers, are the ones who pay our school teachers, 
and we don't pay them enough to keep body and soul 
together while they are teaching our boys something 
that we shirk from teaching them ourselves, then we 
have only ourselves to blame. And if our boys are 



BOYS 223 

insolent, irresponsible, lazy, and dishonest, who else 
is to blame but us? 

The manners of our young people is a favourite 
topic of conversation, and a favourite thesis for es- 
sayists. They are pretty bad. Granted. But where 
did they get them ? 

The manners of American children are said to be 
worse than those of any other people. The American 
child abroad has been an object for satire and deri- 
sion. The reason is largely economic. It is because 
America has the greatest natural resources, and is 
therefore the richest country, that it produces — or 
tolerates — the worst manners in its young people. I 
have a friend who has two sons. Up to the time 
when the first son was about sixteen the father 
had to struggle and this boy had to go to work. But 
he, the old man, suddenly began making money, and 
when the second son came along, there was enough 
to send him through college, buy him a car, etc. The 
result was that he became a ne'er-do-well, while the 
first boy developed character and became an asset. 

In the scheme of things as they are, is the boy 
important ? Do you know of anything that is more 
so? So far as I am concerned, a boy is the most 
beautiful thing in nature. You can get more kinds 
of emotions and sensations in reflecting upon a boy 
than in any other way. He stands as the epitome 
of the race. He moves the world along. All things 



224 BOYS 

that come out of mankind are inherent in him. This 
being so, let us find out what we can do about him, 
where we are deficient, where he is deficient, and 
where he can be improved, or at least given a proper 
opportunity. 

You cannot force a boy. If you tamper with him 
too much, you will ruin him. Think of the smug 
satisfaction that so many of us have betrayed over 
the fact that we have abolished the corner saloon, 
and then how far along that is in the boy's life ! Why, 
before he reaches the saloon he has been moulded 
into what he will be. Whiskey, in so many cases, 
is only quickening the process of a man's decay. As 
long as the slums remain, our boys are the victims. 
Every boy, so says the Constitution, is entitled to 
life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Does he 
get it? He gets life, slavery, and the pursuit of 
demigods, politicians, prize fighters, and thugs. 
Or, if his parents have too much money, then he 
gets gambling, gasoline, and gout. 

But all this is general, and we certainly cannot alter 
the world in a jifFy. By the time things are getting 
better, we shall all of us be dead and a new generation 
will come to upset all the start we have made. The 
main point is, what can we do now with our boys 
just as they are? If you have a boy, the thing that 
you may decide to do for him this afternoon may have 
a bearing upon his whole life. Then you ought to 



BOYS 225 

know something about him, and about yourself. 
Are you sure that you are doing the right thing? Are 
you doing anything at all? Have you given him 
over to others, or do you believe — as a large propor- 
tion of fathers undoubtedly believe — that the boy 
gets along best if he is allowed to shift for himself? 

The boy is without doubt the most interesting 
subject in the world. Then why isn't he more dis- 
cussed? Most fathers are reticent about their boys, 
because they are frankly in doubt. They don't 
quite know what to think. They wish to wait until 
the returns are all in. If they say anything, it is 
usually in discreet praise. Whatever other boys are, 
your boy is all right. He has never done anything 
to cause you any trouble. How seldom is there a 
father who will ever admit anything else but that? 
When they do admit it, they go too far the other way. 
If a man really gets mad at his boy, then often he 
cannot say enough against him. He seems to take 
a certain amount of satisfaction in letting everybody 
know that the boy is no longer anything in his life. 
"I have done everything that man can do," he will 
say, "and look how he has repaid me! Now he can 
go his own way. I can't do anything more for him." 

That is really what each one of us who has a boy 
wants to know: Can we do anything more for him? 
Have we done too much already ? Have we withheld 
anything or put the emphasis on the wrong spot ? 



226 BOYS 

Let us consider boys as they are for a moment, 
just to get some sort of a line on them. 

You can divide them roughly into two groups — 
the good and the bad boys. Even this is uncertain 
because the bad boys of to-day may be the good boys 
of to-morrow. I know a boy who was thrown out 
of school for theft not so many years ago, and gener- 
ally disgraced. Only two men in his own home 
town stuck by him and neither of them was his father. 
But the two outsiders were enough. One of them 
got him a job, and then he went to France. Now 
he is back again, making good at forty dollars a 
week. 

It is nothing against the great army of mediocre 
men to say that once they were all good boys — that 
they did what their fathers and mothers asked them 
to do — that they "minded." And it may not be 
anything in favour of some of the large "great" boys 
when we know that in their younger days they were 
considered very bad. 

There is such a thing in life as getting your second 
nerve. The first nerve is there unconsciously. That 
is what I meant when I said that a boy had an ab- 
sence of fear. But pretty soon in his life there comes 
a test and it remains to be seen whether he will sur- 
vive. If he gets his second nerve he will be all right 
after that. Nerve is a peculiar thing in the life of a 
boy. It's something that he appears to develop 



BOYS 227 

suddenly, but after all it is only the outcome of a 
long previous home influence. He is brought short 
up against an utterly new condition; then it comes 
out whether he is "yellow" or not. Instead of 
"laying down" he will rise to the occasion in the 
most astonishing manner. And that is the most 
popular theme in the romance of boyhood. It's 
the story of the mistaken old man who casts off his 
boy, who, thrown on the world, suddenly becomes a 
millionaire and gets back in the nick of time to pay 
off the mortgage. That's a grand story, and we never 
tire of it. The reason we like it is that it is true. 
We know that in so many cases the boy is really 
superior to the old man. He hasn't had time to 
acquire all the ignorance that is bothering the old 
man, clogging up his mind, making him mulish and 
impossible. The boy is fresh. He has a new point 
of view. The conventions that his father has become 
used to and that are a part of his life have all got to 
be tested out by the boy before he accepts them. 
He isn't taking anything for granted. Why should 
he ? He sees a very imperfectly man-made world, a 
world of profiteering, and inequality, and slums, 
intermixed with gross extravagance, and he says to 
himself, "If good men like my old man are responsi- 
ble for this world, I'll look him over pretty closely 
before I swallow all the line of talk he is going to hand 
out to me." Can you blame him? 



228 BOYS 

But granting all that, and freely admitting that 
we are all of us miserable sinners, we are willing to 
take our boys, just as they are now, and do every- 
thing that we can for them to help them make a 
better world. So far as the world itself is concerned, 
we are more or less up against it. It isn't the kind 
of a world that we individually would have made. 
At present it appears to be pretty well upside down. 

But whatever good there is left in it, we know that 
this good was preserved for us by these, our boys. 
They did it. They would have gone on being killed 
for ever and for ever, to defend what we and they 
believed to be right. This being so, we certainly owe 
it to them, considering that they do the real work, to 
help to make them as good as they can be made. 

And the way isn't made any easier for us by the 
psychologists and the school men, the professors and 
the half-baked theorists who think they know some- 
thing. This is a case of getting right down to brass 
tacks, of between father and son, and the tumult and 
the shouting won't do any good. Throw away the 
books, face each other, and have it out fairly and 
squarely. 

Just what are you going to do for your boy? How 
are you going to treat him? How much money 
are you going to give him? When are you going to 
begin on him? And when are you going to leave off? 
Is there any rule? 



BOYS 229 

I know a man who nursed his boy as a baby, 
watched over him as a child, and when the boy grew 
up made a close companion of him. The two were 
inseparable. And what happened? The boy as 
soon as he got loose, at about eighteen, forged his 
father's name, ran away afterward, and joined the 
navy and then deserted. Yet during his entire youth 
his father never had occasion to raise his voice to 
that boy. There never was anything between them 
but gentleness and courtesy. 

A man who had four sons said to me that every- 
one of them was lazy and shiftless until he was over 
twenty, and then they all gradually took a turn for 
the better and came out all right. A boy is the prod- 
uct of heredity and environment, and some slight 
thing early in his life may determine the course of it 
afterward. But there are several things about 
boys that it is just as well to know offhand. One 
of them is this: 

Every pronounced trait that a boy has, has its 
opposite concealed somewhere inside of him and you 
never can tell when the opposite will come to the 
surface. Sometimes two traits that are diametrically 
opposite will be working in a boy at the same time, 
and producing opposite results. For example, a 
boy I know was careless and irresponsible at home; 
he threw his clothes about and couldn't be trusted 
to mail a letter. But in the office he was reliable, and 



2 3 o BOYS 

took charge of large sums of money. When his at- 
tention was called to the discrepancy he replied, "Oh, 
well, that's different. " Of course, it was different. 
He did what he had to. 

And that is the secret of most boys. They are 
cautious to a degree when it comes to trying out 
things that are distasteful. Where their curiosity 
is aroused they will go the limit to find out. It is 
often an evidence of weakness in a boy when he con- 
forms too readily to conditions. Therefore, when you 
see a good boy, don't be so sure of him. Character 
isn't developed by conformity to conditions but by 
resistance. Subjected to a series of tests, a boy will 
either fail or succeed. And do not make the mistake 
of believing that the boy doesn't think. He is 
the most powerful thinking machine in the world. 
He isn't voluble, but that doesn't matter. The point 
is that he really wants help. It would surprise you 
to know how much he wants it. He wants facts, and 
if he becomes a skeptic it is because his father has 
failed to supply him with the right facts. That is 
the trouble with most fathers — they do not tell their 
boys the truth. How many fathers are there who 
will acknowledge their own weaknesses to their boys ? 
Yet these weaknesses are perfectly plain to the boy, 
and it is just because of this fact that he is bewildered 
when his father really tells him the truth. He doesn't 
know whether to believe him or not. The first thing 



BOYS 231 

that a father ought to be to his boy is reliable and 
accurate. You think it is easy to be this? Try it. 
The moment your boy asks you a leading question, 
you will find yourself beginning to hedge. Then 
you will excuse yourself mentally by saying that you 
had to do it, because society is so formed that we 
must live up to certain things whether we believe in 
them or not. 

It is the hardest thing in the world to be accurate, 
especially where your relationship with others is a 
close one. You are a quivering mass of more or 
less controlled emotions and prejudices. If your 
boy has a dispute with his mother (and those things 
occur whether they are mentioned in the story books 
or not) then what are you to do? Whom are you 
going to stick by? In that apparently simple situa- 
tion lies the destiny of many a boy. A very large 
proportion of all our divorces are caused because 
people don't know how to be accurate. A boy's 
home life is the greatest influence he has. There- 
fore, the attitude of his father toward his mother is 
fundamental. And in a case like this, there is only 
one way, and that is to tell the truth no matter where 
it may lead you. 

A father has got to be a just judge. He has got 
to weigh both sides at all times, sift the evidence, 
reserve his decision until he knows where he stands, 
and then tell the truth. It is this power of decision 



232 BOYS 

over our daily actions that makes us real men. You 
cannot impart it to your boy unless you have it 
yourself. When he sees you, in any given situation, 
struggling without prejudice to get a right judgment, 
he is going to sit up and take notice of you. That 
is the reason why a father should rarely pronounce 
judgment at the time. The man who, angry at his 
boy, waits until the next morning, has discovered a 
great secret. The power of the wait is almost in- 
conceivable. 

The right kind of a father, indeed, has to do very 
little with his boy. His main business is with him- 
self. If he is accurate in his statements, unpre- 
judiced in his decisions, patient, and has kept his 
sense of youth, he cannot keep his boy away from 
him even if he would. The boy wants to know in- 
tensely. He is going to find out. If he can't find 
out at home he is naturally going outside. 

But after all, the great thing a father ought to give 
his boy is health — as much of it as he can carry. The 
boy is entitled to know how to take care of himself 
physically: this is what home ought to give him, 
the means to make him physically fit. If he is a 
good animal the development of his character will 
have something solid underneath. 



A COMPLETE SYSTEM 

MAY I have a few moments' private conver- 
sation?" 

The faultlessly dressed gentleman addressed the 
portly business man standing upon the threshold 
of his office. 

"This is a business proposition, sir," he said, 
rapidly closing the door and sinking into a seat be- 
side the desk. "I am not a book agent, nor have I 
any article to sell. I have come to see you about 
your wife." 

"My wife!" 

"Yes, sir. Glancing over the society column 
of your local paper, I am informed that she is about 
to take her annual trip to Virginia. You will, of 
course, have to remain behind to take care of your 
vast business interests. Your wife, sir, is a charming 
and attractive woman, still in the bloom of youth. 
Have you, sir, considered the possibilities?" 

The other man started to get up, his face red with 
rage. 

"You " he began. 

"One moment, sir, and I think I can satisfy your 
mind that my motives are pure as alabaster. This 
233 



234 A COMPLETE SYSTEM 

is an age of machinery, of science and invention, and, 
above all, of efficiency. I am simply carrying this 
idea of efficiency into the domestic life, which, as 
you are doubtless aware, is so much more important 
than the physical. One moment, sir. I can furnish 
you with the highest credentials. This is purely 
professional, I can assure you. Will give bond if you 
so desire. My proposition is this: I will accompany 
your wife on her trip, always, when travelling, at a 
respectful distance, you understand, and it will 
be my pleasure as well as business to amuse and 
interest her during her stay. I do everything — play 
tennis, bridge, dance all the latest steps, know the 
latest jokes, can sing, converse on any subject or 
remain silent, am a life-saver, can run an auto, flirt 
discreetly, and, in fact, am the most delightful com- 
panion for a wife that you can imagine. Remember, 
sir, that unless you engage my services your wife is at 
the mercy of all the strangers she may meet, and, 
being in that peculiar condition of mind where she is 
bound to be attracted by things that would otherwise 
seem commonplace, there is no telling what the end 
might be. But with me she is perfectly safe. I 
guarantee results. I insure your heart's happiness 
against the future. Terms reasonable. I can refer 

you to " 

In reply the enforced host rose up, and, taking him 
not too gently by the arm, led him to the door. 



A COMPLETE SYSTEM 235 

"My friend," he said, coldly, "your proposition 
of safety first doesn't interest me. No, sir! Im 
sending my wife to Virginia in hopes that she will 
actually fall in love with somebody else, so I won't 
have to endure what little I see of her any more, and 
here you come in to spoil my future. No, sir!" 

His visitor turned and faced him with a bright 
smile. 

"My dear sir," he said, "wait. Business man 
that you are, you do not understand the extent of 
our resources, which cover every emergency. In 
accordance with our usual custom, I have already 
met your wife at a bridge party, and I might say 
that she is crazy about me. Now, sir, for double 
the price of my regular fee and a small annual stipend, 
which is about half the alimony you might have to 
pay, I will agree to marry and take her off your 
hands in six months, making you happy for the rest 
of your life. Sign here, please. Thank you." 



THE VISITOR 

OPPORTUNITY knocked twice at the man's 
door and was about to knock a third time when 
the door was hurriedly opened by a woman. 

"Where is the man?" said Opportunity. "Come! 
I've no time to lose. ,, 

"You're the very one he's looking for," said the 
woman. "But — he's occupied." 

"You're his wife, aren't you? Tell him to come." 

"He won't believe me. He'll think I'm mistaken. 
He'll think you are someone else." 

"That isn't my fault. I've done my duty. 
Good-day." 

"Oh, please don't go. I'll tell him. I'll try to 
convince him who you are. Give me a little time." 

Just at this moment the man rushed out and grab- 
bed Opportunity. Then he turned roughly to his 
wife. 

"Why didn't you let me know she was knocking?" 
he said. "Why, she almost got away. Just like 
you!" 



236 



FOR THE GIRL YOU LOVE 

A GREAT MANY PROMISING YOUNG MEN HAVE BEEN 

DISAPPOINTED IN LOVE. HOW CAN YOU ALWAYS BE 

SURE OF WINNING THE GIRL? THE FOLLOWING RULES 

WILL BE FOUND OF INESTIMABLE VALUE 

REMEMBER that persistence wins. Call upon 
her every night, and always be near. 

Never bore her. It is better for her to ask why 
you haven't come than why you have. 

Don't be misled by her apparent timidity. The 
chances are that this is assumed. No matter how 
much she may seemingly resent it, throw your arms 
around her every time the impulse moves you and 
kiss her. Be bold. 

Above all things, secure her respect. To achieve 
this, always show her that you are the soul of cour- 
tesy. Let her show unmistakably first that your 
advances will not be resented. Then, and only 
then, must you permit yourself to hold her hand. In 
the long run, this is the best method. 

Lavish money upon her. If she is a true woman, 
she will voluntarily curb you. 

Don't get her into the habit of thinking you are 
Coal Oil Johnny, or afterward, when you are married, 
237 



238 FOR THE GIRL YOU LOVE 

you will discover — but there are some forms of human 
slavery too pathetic to dwell upon. 

Always consult her parents. Thus you avoid 
future trouble. 

Don't be bulldozed by her father and mother. 
They weren't when they were young, however much 
they may now wish others to think so. 

To secure her best love, remember that you must 
show her unmistakably that you care for her alone. 

Above all things, don't give her the impression 
that she is the only girl in all the world. This 
theory has long been exploded. To keep her inter- 
ested you must keep her surprised. 



ON SPENDING ONE'S MONEY 

OCCASIONALLY some domestic enthusiast 
(usually a woman) writes to her paper and 
explains how a family of six supports itself in abject 
luxury on four hundred a year. 

Ordinary mortals generally read her tables of ex- 
penditures with a mingling of despair and disgust, 
and a kind of horrible fascination, for the subject of 
spending one's money is bound to be interesting so 
long as people have to reap as they sow. 

Your right-hand neighbour belongs in the class 
with the lady above. He weighs his coal after it 
is delivered by a secret process of his own. He writes 
down the number of feet of gas he burns every month, 
and can institute an instant comparison with any 
previous month for years back. He cannot under- 
stand why you pay eighty dollars for a suit of clothes 
when he gets a much better and more stylish effect 
for one half the money. He is always the kind of a 
man who has the kind of a wife who not only lives 
within her allowance (about one third of what your 
wife finds she cannot manage upon), but saves a 
portion with which she buys an occasional govern- 
ment bond. As for his children, on from ten to 
239 



2 4 o ON SPENDING ONE'S MONEY 

twenty cents a week pocket money they buy their 
own bicycles and skates, and all have extensive bank 
accounts. 

Your left-hand neighbour is quite the reverse of 
all this. Compared with him, the habits of an Indian 
prince are like those of the late Russell Sage. He 
sees a motor-car on the street that he likes and im- 
mediately calls up the agent and orders one just like 
it. He buys first editions as one buys watermelons. 
Ask him to subscribe to anything or to take stock 
in anything and he is your man. The impression 
he gives you of his wife is that she is a being so re- 
mote from the consideration of how much anything 
costs as to live in a higher world. His eldest boy — 
who is, let us say, just turning sixteen — has twenty- 
five dollars a month for spending money, a motor- 
car of his own, and has everything charged in the 
bargain. 

As for yourself, you are thoroughly familiar with 
these two extremes and with all the intermediate 
human gradations. You meditate and speculate 
upon them. You know them, but you do not know 
yourself. Singular, most extraordinary, and hitherto 
unsuspected impulses suddenly rise within you. Some 
of your economies are uncanny. Your suspenders 
may be in shreds, but you shrink passionately from 
getting another pair, while, merely for the difference 
of half an inch in the size of the brim, you will buy a 



ON SPENDING ONE'S MONEY 241 

twenty-dollar beaver hat which you wear four times, 
possibly, in a season. Your wife hesitates for a week 
over an electric bulb and will bring home in triumph 
a forty-dollar Paris hat marked down from sixty-five. 
Spending one's money is an affair so barometric 
that it depends upon almost anything — what you 
have seen the day before, with whom you have 
talked, what you have eaten, and which way the 
wind blows. It is also largely a matter of one's 
worldly imagination. One of two things usually 
happens to the victim. Either he becomes hope- 
lessly entangled in the habit or else his spending im- 
pulses gradually die out and he falls back on his 
inward resources, content, like the hermit, to sing, 
"My mind to me a kingdom is." 



INDISSOLUBLE PARTNERS 

MEMORY and Imagination had a discussion 
as to which was the greater. 

"Without me," said Memory, "your buildings, 
your fine castles, would all go down. I alone give 
you power to retain them." 

"Without me," said Imagination, "there would be 
no use of retaining them, for, indeed, they wouldn't 
be there. I am the great builder." 

"And I the great recorder." 

"It appears, then, that no one of us is greater 
than the other. Yet I would not change places with 
you." 

"Why not?" said Memory. 

"Because," replied Imagination, "without you 
I can still keep on creating over and over." 

At the end of a year Memory came back. 

"What have you done?" asked Memory. 

"Nothing," said Imagination. 

"And you were wrong when you said that without 
me you could still go on creating." 

"Yes. I did not realize how dependent I was 
upon you. What have you been doing during the 
year?" 

242 



INDISSOLUBLE PARTNERS 243 

"Reviewing some old friends. That was all I 
could do." 

"Then we are practically equal." 

"Yes. Let us live together hereafter in harmony, 
carrying on our door this legend : 

There is no Memory without Imagination, 
And no Imagination without Memory. 



THE GREAT I AM 

1AM the grade-crossing. I spend my time span- 
ning railroad tracks. 

I am patience personified. Sometimes I wait for 
years for one small victim. 

But I wait with the consciousness of power, for 
the law is on my side and many men believe in me. 
Their trust makes my harvest sure. 

I am the grade-crossing, and I laugh raucously to 
myself as I listen in the dim watches of the night to 
the tinkle of bells on the cross bars. It pleases me to 
hear the wanton sound. 

Many times they have tolled, but tolled too soon. 
They should wait. 

I love the distant shriek of the locomotive, I love 
the whirring sound of the wheels, and I love the gay 
and careless laugh of the pleasant-voiced children 
as they chatter to the chauffeur. 

I love the chauffeur because he dares me. He 
tries to circumvent me, and succeeds nine times out 
of ten. 

I love him for the tenth time, and as I brood and 
meditate between funerals I rejoice that I am a grade- 
crossing. 

244 



THE GREAT I AM 245 

I croon to myself the song of the Shining Rail and 
the Dashing Train, and I am satisfied, for even 
though I occupy a humble sphere, and the great 
human crowd passes me by indifferently, yet I, too, 
do my work in the world, and Death delights to do 
me honour. 



A NARROW ESCAPE 

HE WENT up to a portly, rather used-looking 
gentleman in the station and said : 

"Excuse me, sir, but are you a married man?" 

"I am, sir." 

"As I suspected. So am I. You have been 
married, I should say, about fifteen years." 

"About that." 

"You are the man, sir, that I have been looking 
for. Fve been married sixteen years. I want to talk 
to you about woman. I feel that I can put my trust 
in you. There is a bond of sympathy between us. 
For years IVe had this thing on my mind, but have 
never dared utter my secret thoughts. Woman, sir, 
is a characterless creature of impulses. She has no 
memory for the past and no regard for the future. 
When by temperament she isn't a money spender, 
frittering away a man's hard-earned cash on utterly 
senseless fabrics and gewgaws, she is so mean and 
prim and utterly small that life in the desert of Sahara 
compared with her is a pretty fair Paradise. Woman 
talks, and what does she say? Nothing. Absolutely 
nothing. The more she talks and the better she 
246 



A NARROW ESCAPE 247 

talks the less she says. The truth is, woman knows 
nothing at first-hand. Between her mind and actual 
facts there is a soft velvet surface. You know women, 
I take it?" 

"I know one." 

"Then you know all, for they are all pretty much 
alike. Between you and me, I am weary of their 
endless prattle, of their idle ways, of their assumption 
of moral fibre which they haven't got, of their inter- 
minable hypocrisy. Do your views coincide with 
mine?" 

Two ladies, rather fluffy and prosperous, now 
approached. They had been chatting. One of 
them grabbed the rather used-looking man by the 
arm. 

"Do your views coincide with his?" she muttered, 
suspiciously. 

"Never!" 

The man who had been unbinding his soul sized 
up the distance they had come since he began, and, 
taking a chance, said: 

"That, sir, is a great pity. I was just observing, 
madam, when you came up with my dear wife here, 
that woman is the loveliest being on earth, whose 
gentle influence spread over the sons of men has saved 
the race from utter destruction; whose sweetness 
breeds eternal virtue, and whose beauty is a constant 
inspiration. Madam, believe me when I say woman 



248 A NARROW ESCAPE 

is the Jewel of Time, the one who, constant to her 
superb ideals, leads us to better things. When, sir, 
you have, perchance, been married as long as I have 
you will come to believe the same thing. We must 
leave you. Here comes our train." 



POPULAR CONCEPTIONS 

AS SOME OF US THINK THEY ARE 

A BOLSHEVIK is a wild-eyed, black-headed, 
narrow-chested combination of Russian, Pole, 
and Hebrew who is always running away from some- 
thing or killing people on the sly. He never bathes, 
or brushes his hair, and the moment anything is, he 
wants to have it abolished. 

A Sinn Feiner is a man with Celtic whiskers who 
spends his time in cellars consorting with Prussians. 
His object is to overthrow the British Empire. He 
lives in Dublin, New York, and parts of Milwaukee. 

A Chorus Girl is a young woman who never sleeps, 
and passes most of the time, when not on the stage, 
in drinking champagne with millionaires. Her age 
is variously estimated at from sixteen to a hundred 
and sixty, according to the depth of her make-up. 

A Specialist is a man whose principal occupation 
is robbing people of all the money they have and 
operating upon them needlessly with instruments 
specially devised for this purpose. When for various 
reasons he cannot induce his patients to be operated 
upon, then he has a sanitarium into which they 
249 



250 POPULAR CONCEPTIONS 

are incarcerated and slowly robbed and starved to 
death. 

An Editor is a mean, vindictive creature whose 
main object in life is to prevent anything intelligent 
from getting into his paper. To accomplish this 
he surrounds himself with a few well-known authors 
long past their usefulness, printing their manuscripts 
for the sake of their names, while unknown geniuses 
who send in masterpieces are wholly ignored. All 
Editors, of course, are under the direct control of the 
advertising departments. 

The Society Woman lies abed drinking coffee and 
smoking cigarettes every day until noon, when her 
maid, usually named Marie, knocks gently and says, 
"Your bath is drawn, madam." She then rises, 
enters her limousine, and goes shopping, buying 
several thousand dollars' worth of lingerie and hats. 
In the afternoon she attends polo games and fetes, 
and in the evening spends her time in opera or theatre 
boxes or playing bridge for large stakes. She is 
either about to get a divorce, has just obtained one, 
or is not living with her husband — to whom, however, 
she always bows politely when they meet in public. 



THE RIGHT MAN 

THE salary is twenty-five thousand a year." 
Henry Kapps, magnate and the head of one 
of the largest businesses in the world, sat in his pri- 
vate office interviewing applicants. He had adver- 
tised in all the papers, had told his friends, and, in 
fact, had done everything possible to let the world 
knowthe news that there was a twenty-five-thousand- 
dollar job open on his premises. But the man who 
had been sitting in front of him got up and shook 
his head. 

"I'm sorry, sir," he said, "but I couldn't fill that 
job. I'm only a two-thousand man." 

The next applicant entered. 

"We want a man," said Henry Kapps, "who " 

"Excuse me, sir, but what wages do you pay?" 

"Twenty-five thousand a year." 

The applicant stared and arose. 

"Not for me," he muttered. "I'm not up to that." 

One by one, as the fatal sum was mentioned, the 
applicants disappeared. They knew it was no use. 
The job was too big for them. 

Henry Kapps started to go home. 
251 



252 THE RIGHT MAN 

"It's no use," he muttered. "Plenty of 'em up 
to four or five thousand a year, but the twenty-five- 
thousand-dollar job is more than they bargained 
for. But I must get someone." 

Then he thought a moment, stepped into the eleva- 
tor, went down into the street, turned across the 
way, entered another building, and made his way up 
to the fifth floor. He was ushered into another 
private office similar to his own. He shook hands 
with an old business friend. 

"John," he said, "I'm looking for a chap who can 
do a certain work for me. The salary is twenty-five 
thousand dollars a year. Do you know of such a 
man?" 

His friend smiled. 

"Strange, Henry, you should have come to me at 
this moment," he said. "Twenty-five-thousand- 
dollar men are scarce as hen's teeth, but, as luck will 
have it, I know a young man — if you can get him — 
who will fill your requirements. I'll guarantee he's 
fully worth the money. He's had a remarkable 
record, and happens to be in the next room now. 
I'll ask him in." 

The young man entered. 

"So you are a twenty-five-thousand-dollar man?" 
said Henry Kapps. 

"As a starter," with a smile. 

Henry Kapps drew closer. He scanned the face 



THE RIGHT MAN 253 

of the young man closely. He looked as if he was 
worth the money. 

"I've certainly seen you somewhere before," 
muttered Henry Kapps, bewildered. "You are very 
familiar to me." 

The twenty-five-thousand-dollar man grinned. 

"Yes, Mr. Kapps," he said, "you ought to know 
me. Ten years ago I was your office boy, and you 
fired me for incompetence." 



NOTES ON HEALTH 

COMPILED BY A PRACTITIONER OF THE MODERN 
SCHOOL 

HEALTH is necessary to every human being. 
It enables us to walk and talk, and in many 
other ways contributes to ease and comfort. Yet 
how many people realize that it can be had at a 
slight cost ! 

Shakespeare has said ; "Health is wealth. " In 
the face of this profound utterance, by one of the 
greatest masters, how can we hesitate? 

In a state of health, the eyes of a human being are 
bright and full of lustre. He walks erect, and his 
chest moves outward and inward with every breath. 
He wears a bright smile for all. His complexion is 
like a young girl's. His flesh is firm. All are glad 
to meet him. 

To be healthy means to be well. A well man is 
always a healthy one. In true health, a man always 
has a well look. 

DIGESTION 

All food is eaten. It should be laid down as a 
cardinal principle that no food can be digested that 

254 



NOTES ON HEALTH 255 

is not first eaten. Food is either eaten with an ap- 
petite or without. The appetite is not visible, like 
the teeth or the stomach, but it is very important, 
and should be present. If not present, it should be 
sent for. The teeth are used to chew with. They 
should be carefully groomed morning, noon, and 
night. The stomach receives the food, assisted by 
its network of nerves, which never leave it day or 
night. These nerves are knitted about the stomach 
and are supplied by the vasomotor nerve-distributing 
company. Without them the stomach would fall 
to the ground. The alimentary canal also assists 
the stomach, and its canal boats can be seen every 
day humbly plying their trade and distributing food 
to the great centres of industry throughout the sys- 
tem. 

Food is not only essential to the human system, 
but it is necessary. Without food we would become 
anemic, and we could not move about with our ac- 
customed vigour. Food is used everywhere to 
sustain life, but in some parts more than others. 
Without food the eyes are downcast, the lips tremble, 
the legs totter, and the stomach flutters idly in the 
wind. 

What is the best food for man? Opinions differ. 
Nitrogenous substances, with carbohydrates and 
fruit salts, fats and leans are recommended for all. 
Always observe the nitrogen in food you are eating, 



256 NOTES ON HEALTH 

and see that it is genuine. Every carbohydrate 
should also be turned over on its side to see that it is 
concealing nothing. 

The value of water for drinking cannot be over- 
estimated. Always drink water from a glass tumbler, 
as the psychic effect of water that is seen by the eye 
as it goes down into the alimentary canal cannot be 
overestimated. 

Water quenches the thirst, and keeps the inside 
of the body and the vital organs from drying up. 
When this occurs there is a feeling of suffocation 
which is unpleasant. 

Water contains germs of bacteria, some of which 
are friendly and others of which are hostile. Before 
it enters the system every drop of water should 
be carefully examined, and the hostile germs in- 
terned in a place of safety. 

EXERCISE 

Gentle exercise should be taken every day, that 
the body may be brought into a healthy glow. The 
lungs lie in the chest just underneath the epiglottis. 
They are composed of innumerable cells. A cell 
is a place where microbes lie concealed, seeking whom 
they may devour. When the lungs are open to the 
public all the oxygen atoms come in and are con- 
verted, after which they take the subway and travel 
to various points of interest. When the lungs con- 



NOTES ON HEALTH 257 

tract, the walls fall in. Deep breathing is therefore 
necessary. To deep-breathe, stand on the toes and 
push the chest upward persistently until it touches 
the ceiling, where it may rest for a moment. Then 
let it fall gracefully back to the abdominal region, 
which is by this time waiting for it with open arms. 

While doing this, whistle the Declaration of In- 
dependence, and use the deep tones of the voice to 
bring out the tone qualities which are lying there, 
waiting to be used. 

For bathing use a bath tub, or any body of water. 
The bath tub should be of porcelain, and the water 
should flow into it through a faucet. After carefully 
putting the stopper in, fill the tub with cold water, 
into which throw a few cakes of ice to give it body. 
Nothing so invigorates the vasomotor system as a 
lump of ice bobbing up and down your spine. 

Swiftly remove your fur-lined overcoat and step 
lightly and blithely into the bath, singing as you go. 
Toss about in the invigorating water for a few mo- 
ments, flinging it over your shoulder and letting it 
flow in health-giving rivulets down your back. 

To dry yourself use a rough towel. This can be 
obtained at any hardware store. 

Once a week take a hot bath. The skin should 
first be parboiled in the hot water and then carefully 
removed, and with it all impurities that have col- 
lected. 



258 NOTES ON HEALTH 

Soap is useful for the hot bath. Emery soap is 
best, and should be applied by hand. Never re- 
verse the movement, which should be in circles to 
the right. Emery soap is made of equal parts of 
emery and soap. Examine the emery very carefully 
before using, to see that it has not deteriorated. 

A brisk walk in the fresh air should be taken daily. 
If there is no fresh air, it can be obtained in cans at 
any reliable drug store. 

Many of my patients, when beginning my system, 
are troubled with cold feet. The feet are useful, 
and should be carefully nurtured. If you are not 
married, and your feet grow cold, put them in a 
medium oven for fifteen minutes, then plunge them 
in an ice-cream freezer. This restores the circulation 
in a marvellous way. 



HANDS DOWN 

AFFECTING INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF A GENTLEMAN 
WHO WAS ACQUAINTED WITH A CERTAIN WIDOW 

1HAD called upon the widow with the intention of 
proposing, but there was another man there al- 
ready. I wondered if he had come for the same pur- 
pose. He was a small man, somewhat discreetly 
overdressed, and talked well about nothing in partic- 
ular. I think he divined my purpose, for he rose to 
go. The widow, however, detained him. At the 
moment I could not make out whether it was because 
she wished to ward off my proposal or because there 
was a chance of his proposing also — if she could pre- 
vail upon him to remain until after I had gone. 

The other man, however, suddenly proved himself 
to be an extraordinary creature, for he plunged into 
the affair with a courage and lack of taste that, to 
my modest mind, was appalling. 

"I am in love with Mrs. Coburt," he said. "Are 
you? I was just about to make my proposal when 
you entered. " 

"I have no objection to withdrawing if you wish 
it," I said, coldly. 

Our charming quarry here intervened. "The 
259 



260 HANDS DOWN 

fact is, my dear friends," she said, "that I am sure I 
shall never be able to make up my mind between you. 
Now, we are all mature. Let us be quite honest, and 
look at this matter with discernment. " 

"We might settle it by arbitration," I suggested, 
feeling more at ease. "But the great question to be 
settled, after all, is the happiness of the greatest 
number. Let us, with, I hope, becoming gallantry, 
leave ourselves entirely out of the problem. Which 
would you, my dear Sarah, be happier with, and your 
reasons ? Or would it be better for you to go on just 
as you are?" 

"I should undoubtedly be happier with some man 
about the house." 

"Then that part of the problem is settled," I re- 
plied, my rival evidently not being particularly 
edified by the manner in which I was monopolizing 
the conversation — considering that he had started 
it. "As to which one," I added, "that is a matter 
for a test." 

"How* so?" Here interposed Mr. Spoke. 

"I propose," I said, turning to the widow, "that 
the one who during one evening entertains you to 
your greater satisfaction shall win you. The world 
is before us. And you yourself shall be the judge." 

Three evenings later we met for the lady's decision. 
"Mr. Spoke," said the widow, turning to my rival 



HANDS DOWN 261 

with a sweet smile, "you certainly did give me a 
lovely time. Yes, dear," she said to me, "he was 
quite adorable. We had a charming dinner, consist- 
ing of all the things I delight in. The play we saw 
was admirably chosen. The cabaret afterward was 
screamingly good." 

"Then I win," said Spoke, expansively. 

"No, you lose," said the widow, nestling her hand 
in mine. 

"What did you do?" he asked me, rather savagely, 
I thought. 

"Oh," I replied, carelessly, "I stayed here quietly 
with Sarah and listened with the most intense in- 
terest to her wonderful analysis of the character, 
ideals, and multifarious virtues of the most remark- 
able man I ever knew — that is, by proxy." 

"And who was he?" said Spoke, his eye on his 
coat. 

"Her first husband," I replied, nonchalantly. 



LOOKING BACKWARD ON THE HOME 

IN THE YEAR 3OOO A. D. 

THIS, young lads and dames," said the future 
state guardian of the young, as he showed his 
charges into the right wing of the coming museum, 
"is a replica of The Home, as our ancestors knew it." 

"What are those stupid-looking people who are 
sitting there so quietly?" said child No. 917. 

"That was the typical family of the day, including 
the father, the mother, and four offsprings, two male 
and two female. The father, as you see, is reading 
from an ancient book called the Bible, which was 
at one time read and believed in by quite a number 
of people." 

"Is that all that father did?" 

"Oh, no. He ruled over all the household in his 
austere and dignified way — that is, all except mother 
and the hired girl and the children. Also, father 
earned the money whereby the Home was run. 
That, I may say, was why he was considered so 
important." 

"And did mother do nothing?" breathlessly asked 
child No. 918, a charming little girl of eight. "Wasn't 
262 



LOOKING BACKWARD ON THE HOME 263 

she a lawyer, or a statesman, or a director, or a Sov- 
iette, or a flying delegate — or anything?" 

"No," said the inspector. "The period you refer 
to came just a little later. She was then only just — 
mother. Being confined almost exclusively to the 
Home, she frittered away her time in a species of 
personal debasement called dusting and sweeping, 
mending, cooking, and teaching her offspring to kneel 
and pray, an ancient practice resorted to by these 
delightfully absurd innocents." 

"We should not be too hard upon them," observed 
Lad No. 919. "Many of the poor wretches lived 
in the country where they were surrounded by things 
called trees. At that time there were not only 
trees which they used for fuel and a process they 
called education, but there was also a substance called 
coal from which they obtained heat, instead of di- 
rectly from the sun, as at present. They also be- 
lieved in a being called God, the Historical Formula 
which is now, at the beginning of every century, pre- 
pared in advance by a few cabinet officers, not then 
having been invented. But tell me, Paw Paw, who 
were the ingenious minds among our ancestors, 
who first conceived the idea of getting rid of this 
ridiculous thing called the Home?" 

"Like all great advances which occurred before the 
management of the Universe was discovered by a 
Kansas man, who had flunked at Harvard, to lie in 



264 LOOKING BACKWARD ON THE HOME 

a historical formula which he invented, the realiza- 
tion that the Home was superfluous came about 
gradually. The cities were, no doubt, responsible 
for it, and there seems to be evidence to support 
the belief that the movement to get rid of the Home 
originated in a place called New York, a small island 
filled with flivvers, limousines, and profiteers, and 
entirely surrounded by a hostile chemical reaction 
called politics. ,, 

"But, Paw Paw," said No. 921, "did not our an- 
cestors pride themselves on their inventions ?" 

This made Paw Paw smile. 

"To show how crude they were," he replied, "it is 
only necessary to state that in order to communicate 
with one another, they actually strung copper wires 
all over the country, and when both Mars and Venus 
were wig-wagging them frantically, it took them 
several years before they even noticed it or could 
reply. Nevertheless, children, you must not despise 
this family group as it is set in the home that once 
was. Without it we might never have been here." 

At this No. 920, perhaps the brightest and most 
intelligent youth of them all, laughed. 

"Nonsense, Paw Paw," he said. "My prehistoric 
ancestors came from a place called Boston, and in 
the course of time almost any one of us would have 
been able to evolve a working cosmos out of our con- 
sciousness with a human race or so on the side." 



LOOKING BACKWARD ON THE HOME 265 

"Maybe so," said Paw Paw. "But now, children, 
you must move along. Here come a lot of disem- 
bodied spirits who are out for the afternoon, and you 
mustn't mingle with them, as they come from the 
Middle West; and you know we beings of the Atlantic 
Coast must keep up our dignity." 

As they floated out of the Museum, a voice called : 
"Buy the Hourly Radiograph! All the latest 
news from Jupiter, Mars, Venus, and the minor 
planets. Price only one thousand dollars." 



SO RUNS THE WORLD AWAY 

A FORTUNE was once lying around loose. 
It had been in that spot for a long time, and 
nobody saw it. 

Crowds passed, but they overlooked it. 

"I wonder," said the fortune, "if anybody will 
ever notice me." 

A beggar came along with a tin cup and a three- 
cornered stool. He sat down by the fortune and 
appealed to the crowd. 

Two lovers strolled by. 

"We shall have to wait," said one lover, despon- 
dently, "until " 

A poet came along. He had true vision — a 
universal eye. He saw the fortune immediately. 

"Poor thing," he said, turning it over with his 
foot, "one has no time for you." 

Later came a young stranger, who grabbed the 
fortune, and, putting it carefully under his arm, 
walked off. 

Years later he came back to that spot and said 
reminiscently to the fortune, now grown so big that 
nobody would have recognized it: 

"Yes, here is the place where I found you first." 
266 



SO RUNS THE WORLD AWAY 267 

"And to think," said the fortune, "that you, of all 
men, should have seen me — you, with no quality 
save a commercial instinct." 

His owner smiled. 

"I didn't see you," he said. "A poet called my 
attention to you." 



TO ERR IS WOMAN 

WHEN the husband returned unexpectedly 
from his journey, he saw his best friend go- 
ing out of the back door with his wife. 

"You came too soon, ,, said his best friend. "You 
should have waited. We did not look for you." 

"I heard," said the husband, "that there was an- 
other man making love to my wife here, and I hur- 
ried home for the purpose of dealing with him." 

"You forgot," said his best friend, "that I was 
here to protect you. Knowing that the other man 
was making love to her, I was forced to cut him out." 

"And you succeeded?" 

"Certainly. Am I not your best friend?" 

The husband reflected for some time. At last 
he said: 

"Yes, I see. As long as my wife is this kind of a 
woman, she would eventually have gone off with 
someone, anyway. And as my best friend, you 
thought it was better that it should be done right." 

"Exactly." 

The husband turned to his wife. 

"Is this true?" he asked. 

"Yes." 

268 



TO ERR IS WOMAN 269 

"Well, that being the case, you may go." 

At this the best friend smiled. 

"The real trouble with you," he said to the wife, 
"is that you didn't make love to me first. Then 
you wouldn't have had to go." 



SOME HISTORIC BLURBS 

AS THEY MIGHT HAVE BEEN WRITTEN IF THE AUTHORS 
HAD BEEN ALIVE TO-DAY 

TO SAY that Moses' Ten Commandments grip 
you in a way that you have never felt before is 
putting it so mildly that we blush with shame at our 
feebleness of expression. In a few short, crisp sen- 
tences, every word of which puts you on your toes, 
this master hand makes you stand aghast at your 
own imperfections. But he does it in such a simple, 
unaffected way that there is no sting to it. You 
can read this soul-stirring message in a few minutes, 
yet it lingers with you for some hours. "I sat up 
half the night thinking of it," said our first reader. 
In the Iliad (released October 1st) Homer has done 
the seemingly impossible thing. He has outclassed 
himself. How Achilles blew up at the right moment, 
and put it over on the rest of the tribe, and all on 
account of the loveliest girl that ever came down the 
great white way, is told with a vividness that makes 
this a masterpiece of real literature. You can actu- 
ally see and feel all the characters, and the colour 
scheme of the suburbs of Troy is portrayed with a 
270 



SOME HISTORIC BLURBS 271 

fidelity to Nature that Arnold Bennett never ap- 
proached. From the thrilling moment when Achilles 
is grabbed by the heel the interest mounts until the 
reader is left breathless. When our head stenog- 
rapher first read the manuscript of this absorbing 
love story she fainted away three times in rapid suc- 
cession. Need we say more? 

The Inferno, by Dante. Light works of fiction, 
in which the richest humour mingles with the most 
delicate play of fancy, are so rare that when one 
comes our way we feel that it must be heralded to 
the world in strong language. This delightful and 
absorbing creation of family life below stairs, which 
might so easily have been vulgarized, is rendered 
with such inimitable art as to carry one along irre- 
sistibly to the final denouement. It has a subtle 
warmth of treatment that lifts it up to the high- 
water mark of literary art. A real hearty laugh in 
every line. 

Julius Caesar's Commentaries, already in its tenth 
edition, although it has not yet been issued, is a 
book of such stirring adventure that no boy who's 
fond of death in every form can afford to be without 
it. Every sentence lashes you into tense excitement. 
As war correspondent and general, the author was 
personally present at every scene he depicts with such 
rare skill, and no matter where he is at the crucial 
moment, fording the Rubicon or penetrating Gaul, 



272 SOME HISTORIC BLURBS 

you actually feel that he has been there. He has 
written his masterpiece over four times in order 
that every sentence may get home to the youth of our 
land with the least pain. The plot, while almost bare 
in its simplicity, is sufficient for the great purpose 
of the soul-stirring author. Every boy will drink in 
its contents with a succession of gasps. 

Faust, by Goethe. When the author of this great 
uncovering of the wellsprings of human motives left 
his manuscript on our desk, we heedlessly allowed 
it to remain there for several days without a thought 
of its marvellous message. The first page so fasci- 
nated us, however, when we finally got at it, that in 
spite of our income-tax report, we read it through 
from start to finish without a break. This book, 
in which the hero, although unmarried, unhesitatingly 
puts himself on a bargain counter, is one that no 
home can afford to be without. 



CONFESSIONS OF A HAPPILY MARRIED 

MAN 

IT TAKES my wife a long time to read anything. 
I skim whole pages instantly. She hates to be 
read aloud to. I love it. 

When we travel I always suggest to her in advance 
the car we shall take. She agrees, but will suddenly 
change her mind and insist upon taking another one. 
I grumble to myself and obey. She likes the top 
of the auto up. I loathe it up. It remains up. 

I always praise her golf, no matter how badly she 
plays. She always deprecates mine, no matter how 
well I play. When I criticize anything she does I 
don't say it. I think it. That sometimes makes 
trouble enough. 

I compliment her occasionally before others. She 
pretends that she doesn't understand why I do it. 

When I buy a new suit she will never admit that 
she admires it until it is worn out. Then she says 
the next one isn't half so becoming as the last. When 
she gets a new gown I admire it intensely until it is 
about time to replace it with another. She never 
liked any hat that I have ever bought. I like every 
one of hers — on principle. 
273 



274 A HAPPILY MARRIED MAN 

I laugh at her when she gets too serious. When 
I get too serious she scolds me. 

I keep her informed about my business only when 
she asks me. She never asks me. 

I tell her a funny story every day. If I have two, 
I keep one for the next day. Sometimes she laughs 
at them. 

She asks me occasionally if I think her hair is as 
long as it was. I always tell her it is longer. 

I hate bridge, dinner parties, dancing, and the 
opera. She respects my opinion and makes me do 
them all. 

She makes out checks and forgets to enter them on 
the stubs. Every time I catch her in this omission 
she reminds me of the celebrated occasion when I 
left the tickets to a large theatre party in my other 
suit. 

She always keeps her temper when I lose mine. 
I keep mine when she loses hers. 

I once told her she was thoroughly spoiled. She 
kissed me and said she knew it. Well, why not? 



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